


Kaleidoscope

by Edana_erised (Myriad_13)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Healing time away from London, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Potential Triggers, Sussex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myriad_13/pseuds/Edana_erised
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Give me love or hate,</i><br/>You can bend me 'til I break<br/>Give me fire, give me rain,<br/>I want joy with my pain<br/>I want your fears, your hopes,<br/>The whole kaleidoscope<br/><i></i><br/>- Kaleidoscope - The Script</p>
<p>Tragedy befalls John Watson once again, leaving Sherlock to help him pick up the pieces. As they do, long hidden feelings come to light and a chance for a new beginning for the dynamic duo. </p>
<p>--//--</p>
<p>Please read the notes at the beginning of each chapter for warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I felt a bit unsettled at the end of Season Three of Sherlock. I really liked Mary in the first two episodes, and then for the turnaround that she was an assassin was a bit much. I don't think I wouldn't have minded if she hadn't shot Sherlock and hadn't been so selfish in trying to secure John's love for her. Because that's what I have a problem with. Her selfishness. And as much as it pains me that she has to be killed off in this fic, we all know she wasn't going to have too much longevity in the show after s3. 
> 
> I want to give Sherlock and John a little bit of peace and honesty with each other. They deserve it. This is the fic to do it. 
> 
> Fic inspired by: Kaleidoscope - The Script/Angel with a Shotgun - The Cab/I'm Yours - The Script/Never Tear Us Apart - INXS
> 
> WARNINGS (for this chapter, it gets less violent after this I promise): Violence, blood, death, mourning, infant death/stillborn. If you are uncomfortable with any of this, skip all the content between the major line breaks.

New moon.

How fitting, cloaking the streets of London in darkness. And yet, John’s eyesight was clear and focussed on the man standing defiantly in the corner of this filthy, dank alley. The man currently staring down the barrel of his gun.

“Sure you want to do this? Let your rage get the better of you?” the man sneered.

A harsh sound escaped John’s mouth and he replied, “Absolutely.”

* * *

_30 Hours Earlier_

Mary Watson groaned and wobbled uncertainly to her feet, leaning on the back of the couch for balance. This baby was due in another few weeks but she felt like she was about to pop. Her little girl, a chance for a new beginning, was kicking – she seemed happy. However, the kicking wasn’t helping Mary’s bladder any. She decided to get a bit of fresh air. The part-time nurse knew that sometimes a good little walk would soothe the unborn child within.

Pulling on her bright red coat, the blonde stepped out of the home she shared with John. She smiled fondly at the thought of him. She finally had him. The man she loved so much to the point of distraction because he had given her a reason to stop her assassin ways (well, mostly). They had gone through so much and were sticking it out for their family. Her past, all the bad decisions she had made, they would not be their undoing.

Right now, John was with Sherlock. They had spent the last fortnight trying to find Moriarty – or at least the person who had sent out the broadcast which had ultimately prevented Sherlock from being exiled.

As Mary walked around the block, her thoughts turned to her husband and his best friend. She owed so much to them both, and especially Sherlock. He had surprisingly not brought up the topic of her shooting him near fatally (although Mary couldn’t say she would have been overly devastated if he had died. She had been trying to keep John after all). The consulting detective had been the one to show John he had the choice to keep Mary in his life, and to Mary’s relief, John had picked her yet again. Even if their conversation was still stilted and they didn’t sleep in the same bed anymore.

She stopped, rubbing her protruding belly thoughtfully. She and John really needed to get him a thank you gift. Perhaps some rare breed of poisonous plant he could perform his usual Sherlockian experiments on.

Mind made up, she turned back towards home. Baby girl had stopped kicking a minute ago, so her bladder was saved from further punishment.

Given that the night was peaceful, quiet, and sweet smelling due to the jasmine planted in front of her neighbours house, Mary couldn’t explain what made her stop, senses suddenly on full alert.

Something wasn’t right. All her instincts cumulated from being an ex-CIA assassin whispered unease. She felt a prickle up her spine, like she was being watched…

 _‘Move. Get into the house!’_  her mind screamed as a flicker of red light caught the corner of her eye.

She leapt forward, trying to make it that extra five steps to the cheery blue door. To shelter. To safety.

A muffled crack tore the air.

If only her fear and blind hope could impede the flight of a bullet.

Mary had been shot before. In her leg, in her arm, grazes to her skin. Never had it been this devastating.

She cried out in pain, having just enough wits about her to twist, trying hard not to fall on her unborn child. She managed, barely, her arms curling protectively around her swollen stomach. She ignored the pain blossoming from her right shoulder. All that mattered now was using this moment to leave clues.

A sniper.

She looked up, blinking away tears that threatened to cloud her vision. She gasped, seeing a figure on the opposite roof, off to the left. It was moving…it…

Mary tried to move, desperately, moving backwards. She could survive this, her baby could survive. She had to pull herself together and just get to her door…

She was so close, only half a metre away from the steps…

She inhaled, reaching for one last burst of strength when she heard the sniper fire once more. White hot pain flashed through her body, emanating from her belly. “No!” she sobbed, clawing the wound as blood spurted out. She felt like she was being torn in two, everything that she had rebuilt, her life disappearing right before her eyes. She had the strength to look up at where the sniper was one last time. In the midst of her life drawing to a painful close, Mary had the presence of mind to leave a clue.

The third bullet pierced through the night and found its target.

Mary Watson was discovered by her neighbour five minutes later, all the life gone from her, sightless eyes gazing upwards at the stars, and a few straggly letters written in blood by her right hand.  

\--///--

When John Watson and Sherlock Holmes arrived at Mary’s murder scene, they were unprepared for the sight that awaited them. They had only known to rush back to John’s house as quick as possible when the call came. At the sight, they halted, stopped by the stark horror of what happened.

Police tape cordoned off the street, Lestrade was barking orders, and in the middle of it all, Mary’s body, bloodied, cold, and still.

“No,” John breathed, his eyes riveted on the small figure of his pregnant wife, gone from the world. He reached out with his hands, taking a step forward, only to fall to his knees. The only thing to stop him from falling face first into the ground were the arms of his friend. “No…no, this can’t…” he mumbled out.

The yawning hole in his heart that had opened with Sherlock’s fake suicide had been closed, barely healed. Now, it gaped wider, a black hole of despair, grief, loss and heartbreak. He was barely aware of the tears streaming down his cheeks. He could only see that faint hope for his future, his family, ripped away from him. He began to shake with the knowledge that yet again, someone he loved (perhaps this love was unhealthy, but it was love all the same) was torn from him, flung into the void.

“John.”

Sherlock’s soft, wobbly voice penetrated through the haze surrounding John. He looked up, saw Sherlock’s reddened eyes meeting his own. “Mary’s…the baby,” John fought to get the word out. “What…what do we do?”

Sherlock offered the only platitude he could at the moment. “I promise you I’ll find who did this,” he said gravely.

Ah, rage. John could grasp that. He could  _do_  something with that.

Sherlock’s face twisted in a grimace. “I need clues. I need to go and look,” he said, looking guilty. Somewhere in the part of his brain not shut down by shock, John realised that he was asking permission to examine Mary’s body for anything that could lead them to her killer. He managed to nod as Sherlock helped him up, moving them over to a nearby car so John could lean against it. He grasped the cool metal, needing things, physical things, to tie him to the ground, to reality, to the cold, sharp edge of it pressing against his jugular.

 _Focus_.

John dragged deep lungful after lungful of air into his body, trying not to realise that Mary would never breathe again. That they would never fully resolve the chasm between them ever since Christmas where they had begun speaking to each other once more. He wouldn’t be able to mend the fractured trust in her. He wouldn’t be able to look forward to his baby girl – to holding her in his arms, smell that soft, new baby smell everyone always raved about.

The wreck of his life that he had been attempting to patch up was blown to bits everywhere. His life was a battlefield of confusion and shattered hopes and dreams.

He managed to tilt his head, focussing on where Sherlock was carefully examining Mary’s prone form.

Well, at least there was one constant again. His friend, currently picking over the crime scene with more respect and care in his posture than he had ever seen before.

John gritted his teeth, stood straighter and ignored the tremor in his left hand. He slowly shuffled closer, and with the last part of him that wasn’t gradually slipping into darkness, he allowed himself to believe in Sherlock – that he would find  _something_.

As if hearing his thoughts, Sherlock looked up, an intense burn shining from his eyes. “She left us a clue,” he said, rushing back to John and murmuring quietly, “She was spelling out the word ‘sniper’ when she died. She only managed the first four letters, but her gaze is directing us to the houses on the opposite side of the street, the rooftops.” The verdigris eyes were cloaked in conflicting emotions but Sherlock kept them at bay, allowing his analytical mind to take over. “Are you up to this?”

John knew what Sherlock was asking. Was he up to pushing his grief aside for a while to catch the murderer. Was he up to forgetting the pain that tethered him to the blank fuzziness in his head.

“You know I am,” he said quietly.

Sherlock gazed at him, analysing him, and nodded. “We’ll have to stay a while so that you can get your…ah…affairs sorted,” he said.

“Start without me. While the evidence is still,” here, John took a deep, calming breath and managed, “fresh.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. But do it anyway. I’m…I…fuck I don’t-“ the shorter man said, shuddering through the sentence. A firm hand pushed a ball of wadded up material into his hand. John brought it up, frowning at the white handkerchief.

“It’s clean,” Sherlock assured, clapping a hand on John’s shoulder to give it a squeeze before turning and dashing off into the night. John watched him leave, wanting to either follow or ask him to stay. Or possibly even hug him, just for the hollow comfort it would give. Sherlock’s presence was the only thing right now that he could rely on, when the current situation was surreal.

“John.” Lestrade’s face was grim as he picked his way through a throng of crime scene analysts to reach John’s side. John had seen that face before, but never had it been directed at him. Lestrade’s ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ expression, the perfect blend of remorse and sincerity. It was another punch to the gut to know that he was emotionally destroyed enough to warrant the look. John just shook his head minutely. He didn’t need to hear the words. They were all too evident.

“I need to take a statement from you. I know it’s the worst time,” Lestrade said apologetically.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Greg retorted mildly, pulling out his notepad and standing next to John, close enough to bump shoulders. John was glad for the DI’s subtlety, knowing he needed someone he trusted near. “Tell me what you were doing this afternoon. Anything, everything. I need to know if you knew of anyone who would make such a statement in doing this to Mary.”

John exhaled harshly. Just hearing her name was enough to make the world spin.

“Take your time,” the DI instructed kindly.

“Sure. Because I’m not going to have any more time with her or…” No. It was too painful to vocalise. John felt like he was about to choke on emotion. There was a reason he wasn’t good with these kinds of things. He looked up, meeting Greg’s eyes. Oh God, the pity he saw them was almost enough to make him retch. It trapped him.

“John, give me facts. Where were you earlier today?” Lestrade prompted once more.

 _Breathe_.

“Sherlock and I were at Barts around 1500 hours, trying to analyse some dirt compound he found on the USB stick that was part of the whole Moriarty broadcast…thing. Anyway, we were doing that, went to three different tube stations and came up with nothing. We were thinking about stopping past the local Chinese place when I got the call,” the ex-soldier detailed tonelessly, glancing past Lestrade’s frame to where Mary lay. “As for enemies…hell, she had a past. Any one of them could have…they had the…ahem, abilities. Or it could be Moriarty. Or whoever is using his image in a sick game,” John growled.

Lestrade’s expression tightened in sympathy. “So, needle in a haystack. Sherlock is onto it, isn’t he?”

“Mm.”

“Look, I believe you. I’ll try and get the scene cleared soon, but until then, what do you need? I can get someone to take you to Baker Street if you need to. Get you away,” Greg offered.

John felt a tightening in his chest as he shook his head. “No. I’m going to travel with Mary to the morgue. Sherlock will meet me there, I’m sure.”

“Are you sure?”

The doctor met the DI’s eyes, his voice steely and resolved. “Definitely. I need to make sure this is real,” he confirmed.

 

\--///--

It was real.

John had a notoriously strong stomach. He had to, to cope with how messy human existence could be, either as a doctor, soldier, or a flatmate to Sherlock and having to keep down his breakfast at the sight of pickled frogs brains in their kitchen sink.

He almost lost what little food was left in his stomach when he walked into the morgue at the wrong time to see that the forensic pathologist had chosen to remove his unborn child from Mary’s womb and put her on a cot at the bottom of Mary’s slab.

It had been gruesome and heartbreaking.

John had run back into the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall, breathing laboured as he struggled to gain iron control of his feelings. He wished he could obliterate the image from his mind, burn it to ash, but he knew the picture would stay with him for a long time, if not for the rest of his life. The baby's skin was a little bloodied, but cleaned, and so  _tiny_. The glance had been enough to know that their little girl would have had hair when coming out of the womb.  

What had been gruesome was the bullet hole shredding through the miniature chest.

“Oh, God, please…let her have felt no pain,” John whispered, sinking down to the floor. His eyes sprouted fresh, bitter, salty tears of loss. He knew that Mary had suffered – the style of her death had made that inevitable. But he had hoped that his baby had at least not shared the feeling of pain.

“John?” a soft voice whispered up to the left of him.

Wiping his face dry, John looked up, meeting Molly Hooper’s saddened face. “’Lo,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I heard what happened. I…um…is there anything I can do?” she asked.

No. There was nothing that this too sweet woman could do to ease the collapse of his life.

“I can’t go back in there. I can’t stay. It’s…just make sure that all the correct procedures have been taken. Please,” he replied. Molly nodded and turned hesitantly. She put her hand on the door to enter as John spoke up again. “And, if you could…the baby…could you…just put a blanket around her or something? Swaddle her, like…”

Molly smiled sadly. “Sure. Did she have a name?”

John grimaced. No, he and Mary had never agreed. But Mary was gone. He could name their child whatever he wished.

“Eleanor. Eleanor Watson,” he said.

When Molly was gone, he placed his head in his hands and sobbed. He sobbed quietly, allowing himself only to do so because he was alone once more. No one would see him falling to pieces over his dead wife and unborn daughter.

It could have been a minute, or an hour, or hell, even a day, the way time was slipping past him, before John noticed the warm presence at his side.

“Make some noise would you?” the shorter man grumbled, hugging his knees to his chest defensively.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Sherlock said quietly, moving closer, almost touching but not quite. “You need to grieve.”

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” John said, the words garbling out past his tongue which suddenly felt thick in his mouth. He noticed Sherlock flinch out of the corner of his eye. He shuddered, remembering the dark days after Sherlock had faked his death and wondered what it would be like to mourn now, with the man at his side. He shut his eyes then, overwhelmed by each wave of emotion roiling within. John reached out blindly – he didn’t know what he needed, but he needed touch, a voice, a something.

John was quite surprised when Sherlock’s arm draped around his shoulders and he found his head tucked into the scarf habitually tied around the detective’s neck. He sagged into the awkward side hug, inhaling the scent of cool London air, some earthy cologne and the faint tinge of formaldehyde. “Why does it feel so much worse this time?” he murmured brokenly.

 “Because it isn’t just one who is gone. Because I hadn’t lied to you about my whole life when it was me, no matter how much I tried to get you to believe it in the last moments before...well,” Sherlock replied simply.

If it had been anyone else, John would have flown into a rage, angry about everything, the blatant truth of the statement which was painful to acknowledge. But he couldn’t be with Sherlock. Not now. Not when it was felt like someone had scooped out his insides and replaced them with barbed wire. The doctor just slumped forward, banging his hand uselessly against the ground as an outlet for his anger and misery. The taller man simply held him, rocking back and forth slowly. The motion gave John just enough strength to pull himself together. For now.

“You here to see what else you can find?” John asked, pulling back. Sherlock’s touch lingered, however, as they stood.

“Yes. The calibre of bullet, to help determine the weapon. I have stored some evidence in Lab 4 to process,” the consulting detective informed him, still in that odd, soft tone of voice used for Mrs. Hudson and victims. John nodded stoically. This was fine. Sherlock on the case was a cold comfort at least. Sherlock moved back, sliding his hand over John’s shoulders and carefully edging into the autopsy room.

After a few minutes, Sherlock returned, but came towards John with a small bundle in his arms, wrapped in a white blanket.

John’s heart sunk as he connected the dots.

“No,” he bit out.

Sherlock paused, tilting his head. His mouth turned down but the expression was at odds with the gentle way he held the bundle in cradled in his large hands. “You need to see her, John,” he said.

“Don’t…don’t make me do it. I can’t, don’t you see? She was my whole reason-“ John snapped his mouth shut, having revealed much more than he was uncomfortable with. “There’s no point,” he hissed. He wondered how many times his heart would crack to pieces tonight.

Sherlock gave him such a look of sympathy that John felt the breath get stuck in his throat. “There is a point. You need to see her because she is beautiful. For all that there is no life in her, she was part of you. You need to say goodbye and let her go. You need to see this beautiful child you created. She’s at peace now…she…she isn’t suffering anymore,” Sherlock murmured coaxingly, his voice hitching with emotion.

John just gaped, unable to speak. And yet...Sherlock was right. He couldn’t stop the tears even if he wanted to, even if it meant damnation. Wordlessly, he reached out for the cool, lifeless body of his daughter. Eleanor was carefully deposited into his arms. Tucked securely in a blanket with only her little face turned upwards, it was as if she was sleeping – no indicators of the trauma she had sustained. A china doll, almost. John let his gaze rove over her tiny features. A choked half-laugh, half-sob escaped his mouth. She looked almost exactly like he did as a baby, only softened a little by the shape of her face.

“Hello Eleanor,” he began. He swayed from side to side, letting the words flow. “It’s daddy. I…I wish you were here with me. I was so looking forward to life with you. Seeing to move, walk, talk. Live. Of teaching you how to climb a tree and learn how to plait your hair while you run around. Seeing you go to school. And who knows, maybe take you around with Sherlock and me on some of the tamer cases.” He shook his head, licking his lips to wet them as his tone began to rasp. “You were going to be my ray of light. My hope. I loved you without you opening your eyes. And now…I’ll love you without feeling your heart beat.”

John lowered his head to place his lips against Eleanor’s forehead, letting the rivulets of his tears rest upon her soft, cold skin. He lingered for a moment and straightened. He met Sherlock’s eyes, which were suspiciously pink-tinged. His friend had been right – he had needed to hold his baby girl just once before he let her go. A curl of gratitude gave a little relief to his mourning soul.

“Could you take her back in? I don’t think I can see Mary right now. I’d get too angry,” John said. He held Eleanor out for Sherlock to take.

As he did so, Sherlock murmured, “In spite of everything…you would have made a brilliant father.”

John moved forward, resting his head against the coat clad shoulder for a second. “Thank you.”

“I told you John. At your wedding. I promised I’d always be here.”

* * *

_Present_

John Watson strode forward, teeth bared as he pushed the muzzle of his gun into the pulse point of Sebastian Moran Jr. “Start talking,” he growled.

Here he was. A day on from his wife’s murder, the life sucked from his daughter, and he had left all emotion behind with his goodbye to Eleanor. The past 30 hours had passed in a blur of anger, anguish, racing from one end of London to the other with Sherlock confirming and searching for more clues, answering Lestrade’s questions and finally knowing a name and location. Now here he was. There was only this. The inferno of fury honed into a single point to be controlled on his whim. It thrummed through his body, promising dire vengeance on those who dared to cross him. It was empowering and terrifying and just what he needed. John Watson, the soldier, out on the battlefield again.

“Why should I?” Moran spat. “Give me a good reason.”

“I’ve never stooped to all out torture before but I think for you I can stoop nice and low. I am a doctor as well, you know. I have a very interesting knowledge of how anatomy can be used  _against_  another person,” John said conversationally, as if he was talking about the weather. This was his element. Sounding calm and threatening simultaneously.

There. The slight shift in stance, line of sweat beading on Moran’s brow.

“Tell me, who ordered you to kill Mary Watson?” ordered John.

Moran bit his lower lip.

John’s eyes darkened and he muttered, “Okay then.” Quick as a striking snake, his hand reached down and sprained the younger man’s wrist effortlessly. “That’ll be just the entree if you  _don’t. Start. Talking,_ ” he rumbled.

“Fine! I’m completely fuckin’ justified in what I did you know. Because you and your faggot friend Holmes got my father arrested and put away for life and you made everyone think that Moriarty was dead,” Moran said, blabbing freely, prompted by the vitriol easily read in John’s expression. “I’m Moriarty’s fuckin’ protégé. A fuckin’ awesome sniper. I helped him fake his death and he gave me orders to shoot that pretty lyin’ wife of yours. Oh, did she do some fine work for us about five years ago, y’know.”

“Shut up,” growled John, digging the gun further into Moran’s neck. “Don’t talk about that. Tell me where your master is.”

“Moriarty? The man’s not in London. He’s be an idiot to be. Nah, he’s establishing new connections somewhere in Northern Europe last time he checked in. Now, you gonna let me go? Can’t have a black mark against your nice squeaky clean record now, eh, Watson?” taunted Moran, his previous arrogance returning in full force.

“Who’s to say I’m squeaky clean?”

With those words, Moran’s face drained of colour again. “Y…you wouldn’t,” he gulped.

“You know what they say. Desperate men do desperate things,” John murmured.

Although in a high-pressure circumstance, the ex-army doctor was very aware of his surroundings. The back of his neck prickled and he  _knew_. He knew who had arrived in the alley. Just his very presence, reminding John of how much Sherlock had given of himself in the past day, made John rethink his plan. “Did you record that admission of guilt?” he queried nonchalantly.

“Every word,” replied the calm baritone.

“Good.” With that, John stepped back, raised his hand behind him and pistol whipped Moran like he had never done to anyone else before. The dark haired head snapped back, a cut drawing a red stripe from temple from chin vivid in the dim lighting. He fell to the cobbled stones with a heavy thump, head lolling. The doctor in John prompted to check for a pulse. It was there. Good. It would have been too much messy paperwork if he had done anything more than knock the annoying murdering shit unconscious.

As he stood, he felt Sherlock come up behind him. “That was remarkable restraint,” he said, moving around the shorter man to read his expression. It was hard, set in harsh lines, and those dark blue eyes shined with an intense myriad of entrenched emotion.

“I know.”

“I would't have blamed you. I would have helped you cover it up,” Sherlock said.

“I know.”

“I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

That made the tiniest smirk quirk at John’s mouth. “I know. I think I’ve had enough of death to last me a lifetime. It wasn’t worth it,” he explained quietly.

Sherlock just looked at him, his frown smoothing out as he realised John was in a slightly better place, having reaffirmed his everlasting compassion for humanity. There was nothing else to be said in this moment, so he did what he thought was right. As he dialled Lestrade, the curly haired detective clapped his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed. It was all he could give, and all John could accept for now. 

 


	2. Another Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk with Mycroft, a surprising revelation from Sherlock, and talking at a gravestone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

“He’s talking.”

“Of course he is. He’s not a complete imbecile. He’s hoping that the more he tells you about Moriarty, he has a higher chance of staying alive and being sent to a generic prison – which he will no doubt escape from.”

“Ah, you’re on my wavelength for once little brother,” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow in approval.

Sherlock turned away. He didn’t want Mycroft to read him – it would be too easy to at the moment. He had to be at Mary and Eleanor Watson’s funeral in an hour, and here he was trying to get out of it by observing some of the British Government’s best interrogators verbally tear Sebastian Moran Jr to shreds.

However, his discovered emotions would not let him avoid the unfortunate proceedings. No, it seemed like _guilt_ and _compassion_ of all things was going to prompt him to go. He had to. For John.

“You are going to be late if you don’t leave soon,” advised Mycroft with a knowing smirk.

“Sod off.”

The older man chuckled fondly at his brother. “Ah, you don’t truly mean that. I know why you have come to see me and it’s not for this piece of filth,” said Mycroft, gesturing at Moran through the one way glass. “What are you planning to do about Moriarty _if_ Moran’s information is verified as true?”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged. “I’m not sure,” he murmured.

Mycroft’s brows rose in surprise. He knew it would have taken Sherlock a great deal of inner strength to reveal to him that he was uncertain of the way forward. It was moments like these he felt the cloak of responsibility of being an elder sibling rest heavily on his shoulders. “Well…that’s new,” he replied.

“Don’t get smug. I’ll try to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“That’s what you said the first time we attempted to rid you of that consulting criminal,” reminded the elder brother.

Sherlock scoffed. He really didn’t need to be reminded. If anything, he was annoyed. All that effort, all that elaborate planning, and for _what?_ Nothing. It had all amounted to nothing. The two difficult years away from London had turned out to be a waste. The detective pondered this. It was for that reason, perhaps – that feeling of time, brainpower and resources being used up – that had changed Sherlock’s mind about what steps to take next regarding Moriarty. “He wants me to engage in his little games once more. I won’t be having it,” he announced decisively.

“Pardon?”

“Do your ears need cleaning, brother? Perhaps send your assistant off to some supermarket for some cotton buds to clear the wax out of your ears. I said I’m not interested in playing some stupid game Moriarty has in store if he truly is back,” Sherlock said, rattling off the words and meeting Mycroft’s gaze evenly. “It’s not fascinating anymore. Not to me.”

“And why do you think that is?” Mycroft asked, his gaze turning shrewd as his intelligent mind spun with the potential answers.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock admitted quietly, “I’m tired.”

By the sudden stiffening in Mycroft’s posture, Sherlock deduced he had shocked his brother – for the second time in a few minutes, it seemed. He decided that this momentary rivalry between them could halt, just for a moment, so he could clarify his state of being. Mycroft had, after all, deigned to admit at Christmas just how much he cared. He could return the favour with being honest.

“As impossible as this may sound, I won’t be able to handle another encounter with Moriarty so soon. I’ve been shot, Mycroft. I’m still recovering, you know that. Hell, I’m still recovering from being abroad. I need some time away. I want to go to Sussex. To _Apibus_. And I’m taking John with me too,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft rocked back on his heels and then stepped closer to his brother. “You think he’ll agree?”

“I hope. And you know I’ve never been one to hope for much unless it is a positive outcome on my experiments,” replied the younger man, fiddling with the lapels of his coat. “I believe we both need a change of pace.”

Mycroft gazed as his brother, deducing exactly what Sherlock was hoping to accomplish. Instead of warning him to use caution, instead he offered, “Should we confirm his live status and happen to capture Moriarty, should you like us to wait until your return before deciding the final plan for him?”

Something resembling playfulness flashed through Sherlock’s eyes. “I would like that, yes. In the interim, I’m sure you’ll find ways of putting him to use. Should be great entertainment for you.”

“Indeed.”

With a curt nod, Sherlock turned to leave and was stopped by Mycroft’s quiet words. “I wish you well, brother mine.”

“Happy hunting,” returned the detective, and swept out of the door.

* * *

It was a beautiful sunny day, nary a cloud in the sky, and a cool, brisk wind wound its way through the graveyard, gently ruffling the flowers placed at the base of Eleanor and Mary Watson’s tombstone. Two bouquets were placed side by side. One was full of blooming petunias, dark crimson roses and harebells, while the other had a gentle air, smaller, and adding a touch of brightness with its flowers of daisy and white carnations. It was almost criminal how serene and peaceful the weather had been in complete contrast to the unhappy proceedings.

The funeral service had been over an hour ago, and everyone had departed save for John and Sherlock.

John had done nothing but stare at the finely engraved grey granite, and had occasionally traced his fingers over the information etched into the stone. It read:

 

_Eleanor Watson_

_Stillborn 17 thJanuary 2015_

_Beloved daughter of John and Mary_

_‘May the Angels watch over you.’_

_Mary Watson_

_Born 13 th October 1972_

_Died 17 th January 2015_

_Wife of John_

_‘Missed but never forgotten.’_

Sherlock had simply watched him from where he was leaning against a nearby tree. This graveyard plot, in fact, had been his own for his fake suicide, and he had given it up as a matter of convenience. It wasn’t as if he would be needing it any time soon – and besides, this had been a back up plot. The real place he would wish to be buried was elsewhere.

Now, he recalled the parallels between this moment and years ago, still feeling like a voyeur as he observed John’s emotions written in the line of his shoulders and the tensing of his left hand. Only now, if he wished, he could offer words, offer contact in the event John needed it. There was no need to conceal himself now. He could only stay silent in the hopes John could say what he needed to say or do what he needed to do.

If only he knew for sure how long he needed to wait. John had spoken to his fake tombstone mere minutes after Mrs. Hudson had left. That he was taking over an hour was unanticipated to Sherlock.

Tentatively, as John traced Eleanor’s name for the fifth time, Sherlock asked, “Do you require me to leave?”

“No. I just don’t know what to say. I’m just so _angry_ and regretful and-“ John blew out a breath and raked his hand through his hair in agitation. “What can I say? What is the point of her death, her life, her lies? There’s nothing to be done. It’d be me talking to the air again and expecting it to talk back.”

“Then talk to the air,” encouraged the taller man.

Something sparked in the doctor’s eyes and he whirled back to the tombstone. “Fine. Here it is. Mary, I loved you, and then I hated you, and now you’ve left me like this. You’ve betrayed my trust and now you’re gone I can’t even find a point in these emotions that just won’t go away. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t _lied_. There was no need. And now I’m feeling guilty for you being dead with me being pissed at you because I’m unable to let go,” he ranted. His hands shook minutely and he bowed his head, staring at the bouquets at the base of the stone. Just as suddenly as the well of words was plentiful, they suddenly dried up. Head high, eyes completely dry, John turned on his heel and marched away. Sherlock hurried to catch up with his furious pace.

“John, wait-“

“Shut up Sherlock,” demanded John.

“No, please, just one question,” pleaded Sherlock, injecting just enough desperation in his tone to get his friend to stop and face him.

“If you are going to be a prick and ask me if I’m going to grow a bloody moustache again, I will hit you. Not that I’m going to by the way,” John said through tightly clenched teeth.

In any other circumstance, Sherlock would have chuckled, smirked, or perhaps even intentionally asked that very question. There was no joy in this. In the outward pouring of ire directed towards him. Sherlock blinked, stunned, and said quietly, “No. I would never have asked you that. I was only going to suggest that…if it’s not too soon for you, that is…that if you wanted, you could move back into Baker Street. Permanently.”

It was John’s turn to be stumped. He shook his head, feeling like an absolute dick. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t be so insensitive. His friend had changed, learned _some_ tact. It had been harsh of him to accuse the man of making a joke at a time like this. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

John sighed, “Why do you even want me around? I’m going to be pissed off and God knows what else for a while. I’m not going to be myself. I won’t want to go running around London for awhile. So what you could you want with me especially after,” he jabbed angrily back towards the gravestone, “all this?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he simply replied, “That’s what friends do, isn’t it? They’re there for each other through everything. At least, that’s what you have taught me.”

The shorter man pressed a hand to his mouth to keep from hyperventilating. It was too much. Getting to be too much. He wasn’t good with this. No, not at vocalising the deep cavern of emotions carved into his being.

“I don’t expect anything of you,” Sherlock went on, his face blank but his eyes earnest with concern. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s really just a selfish thing for me. I need to know you’re there. Just in case if you are made a target again.” He realised that perhaps he should have added these qualifications before John seemed to be unable to cope with the sentimental words. It offered logic and reason – something they both needed. The thought of John living away filled him with dread now more than ever. Sherlock knew John well, but the man was packed full of layers upon layers of complexity while outwardly displaying himself as devastatingly simple. While he couldn’t say for certain, gut feeling told him John couldn’t be alone. After all, the man had been somewhat depressed after his return from war – before they met. Such emotional influx was dangerous.

“Okay,” John finally replied.

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if I had a place with you anymore,” the doctor admitted.

“Don’t be daft. Of course. You always will,” scoffed Sherlock. The very idea that John would ever be unwelcome was stupid.

Uncertainly, John asked, “How soon could I move back in?”

“I would call up every removalist in town if that was what was needed,” replied Sherlock seriously. He shrugged at his friend’s look of surprise. He had just expressed the wish for John to move back home, of course he would make all the necessary steps to ensure it.

“That won’t be. Necessary, I mean. Only thing I want to take with me is clothes, toiletries, a few personal items. I’d rather sell the furniture than bring it with me,” John said. His rigid posture shifted subtly and he murmured, “I don’t think I could bear to be there another night. Too many memories.”

“Right.” Sherlock pulled out his phone, browsing through his contact before finding the name he required. While it dialled, he quickly explained, “I know someone who has a van we can borrow for a few hours free of charge.”

“Of course you do,” muttered John, shaking his head in dull amusement. He couldn’t express his true amazement that Sherlock just made things happen. It was buried under thick piles of grief and raw pain.

“I found him a job at the Yard as a janitor, got him off the streets. He likes doing favours for me every now and then,” the detective said.

“Ah. So that’s how you’ve managed to patch into the Yard so well,” John said with a quiet snort. No wonder Lestrade could never figure out how Sherlock was so intuitive about what happened at the Yard.

“Yes, well, that’s our secret,” replied Sherlock knowingly.

After a few hours of thick traffic (some delicious fish and chips and thirty-five bereavement messages from various friends and family on John’s phone), the two men stood outside John’s house. The crime scene had been cleared, the tape long removed, but both could clearly picture the moment they had arrived and what had been spread out on the path. The cheery blue door seemed to mock them from where they stood.

“I contacted an estate agent yesterday to sell it,” John said to break the odd tension. An peculiar realisation struck him – Sherlock had never come to his house. He had never even been down this street to see him. They usually met up at Baker Street or elsewhere. This house was now a symbol of how big the divide between them had grown.

“Oh.” Sherlock didn’t know how to properly respond to that.

“Do you think that’s cold? To want to be rid of it?”

Sherlock closed his eyes in reverence of the task that had fallen to him, to guide John through this next transition of life. “I don’t think so. It’ll help you recover if you sell, so you should never feel ashamed or guilty for it,” he answered. “But then again, my thought processes are unique compared to the rest of the population.”

“You were doing well until you said that last bit,” the shorter man said.

“Sorry.”

“No. Don’t be. It makes you yourself.”

As one, they stepped forward, breaching the invisible barrier that had stopped them earlier. It was if they were walking over hallowed ground. Every step was careful, measured, and tense. John unlocked the door and ushered them inside quickly. The sooner they got this over with, the better. The familiar walls and furniture stirred up the rage and sorrow in his head, heart, and gut once more.

_Focus_.

“I’ve got some boxes from the original move in the closet,” John said, moving towards it and pulling the door open. “I’ll go upstairs and start pulling stuff together while you get those.”

As Sherlock went to do as he was bid, John slowly climbed up to the second level. His heart was racing. He had this reaction every single day since the 17th – the tight clench of anxiety on his thoughts. He soldiered on to his room and straight to the wardrobe. He began pulling out all of his clothes haphazardly, flinging them onto the bed. He couldn’t stand the sight of Mary’s bright, chic clothing that had looked so adorable on her. He caught a glimpse of her red coat, his heart stuttering. She had wore it when they had first met. The thought was like a slap to the face. John huffed and shut the door after yanking out all of his shoes, knowing for sure he was just going to give all of her clothing and possessions away. He didn’t even want money for it.

Sherlock, with his impeccable sense of timing, chose to enter the room with the boxes in his hands. His sharp eyes took in all the detail of John and Mary’s life with ease. Little indicators of their habits were everywhere, as was the evidence that only Mary had slept here for a while. “Where did you sleep all this time?” he asked curiously.

“Couch,” replied John shortly.

“Ah. If you didn’t mind I packed your favourite films and all of your records and CD’s. I didn’t have the chance to go into the kitchen and see what you might need,” Sherlock rambled, feeling uncomfortable. This place was John and yet not-John. It was not the John he knew. His bible was nowhere in sight, there was no usual pile of mystery novels _anywhere_ – instead they were dusty, all in the white bookshelves in the living room. None of John’s favourite colours were present in the main bedroom. In fact, it was decidedly feminine. While John liked blue, he usually tempered it with grey and navy. The house screamed of Mary’s influence and it was disconcerting to Sherlock’s senses. “Do you need me to…” he gestured at the heap of garments strewn across the floor awkwardly.

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t-“

“-fold your trousers more than once and make sure the shirts are ordered by pattern. I remember,” Sherlock finished, all too aware of John’s packing habits.

John blinked in surprise. “You remembered.”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock said, his tone implying the question was rhetorical as he moved forward to start help his friend fold his shirts.

John was confused. The man used to constantly harp on about his mind palace and placing useless information there. Surely information about John’s clothes habits shouldn’t rank highly on the list of necessary information to keep. He tramped down the urge to grab Sherlock by the collar and demand why had he changed. He was still the same Sherlock but it was if he had softened around the edges. It was odd, this need to know everything about the slender detective as if they had just met again for the first time.

They packed John’s clothes in silence, each brooding and mulling over their own thoughts.

It wasn’t long before any remaining belongings of John’s were stowed away in the van. John was standing in the spare room, the nursery, when Sherlock rejoined him. “Everything is in the van. We can leave,” he said.

“Right, yeah,” said John casually, taking in everything. “Time to move on.” He nodded, but instead of following Sherlock out, he reached for the only item he had purchased for Eleanor all by himself, with no input from anyone. A ragdoll soft border collie toy he had placed on the edge of the cot. He promised himself that it would be the only thing that he took with him to remind him of this moment in his life.

If Sherlock saw him take it, he didn’t mention it. They spent the drive home to 221B in complete silence.

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

It had been a week and a half since the funeral, since John had moved back into 221B, but he might as well not have moved at all. The man was like a ghost and only left his room to go to the bathroom or change out a book after he had completed one. He barely ate, and only if Sherlock was eating as well, and hardly talked.

Sherlock was ready to storm John’s room and protest. Hell, if this is what he had been like at the beginning of their friendship, he could understand now why John had always chosen to go walk his frustration off. Being on the receiving end of his usual behaviour irritated the detective. It wasn’t the usual order of things and the chaos of it niggled at him. He understood that John was going through a tough time, but really, he had to do more than this constant wallowing.

Sitting in his black leather chair, softly stroking his bow over his violin to emit a few bars of Brahms, Sherlock was struck by the thought that perhaps this was how John had reacted over his fake suicide and felt regret for his actions all over again. He had done this to John Watson, and now Mary’s murder had triggered this reaction from him.

The thought was the impetus to spark Sherlock’s mind.

He had been planning to wait another month, for John to get used to 221B as his true home once more, before suggesting the holiday/time away/telling London and Moriarty to bugger off. However, now was the time to act. His efforts in trying to make John comfortable here once again (bringing him tea and toast in the mornings, making sure that his experiments in the fridge were clearly labelled, and even setting out John’s favourite scented candles around the bath in case he felt like it) had prevented him from thinking clearly.

John couldn’t stay in London right now.

It was a representation, a hub of all the misery he was going through.

With a gleam of determination in his eyes, Sherlock set to work. He called up his house keeper, called his brother, booked the train tickets online and tugged out his battered suitcase and began to fill it with a few months worth of clothes. He threw out everything that wasn’t going to keep for more than a month in the bin – even that mildly amusing concoction he had made with lamb brains and passionfruit he was conducting acidity testing on – and tidied up the living room, bathroom and kitchen.

When everything was mildly presentable, he strode up to the second floor of the flat and rapped on John’s door.

“What?” came John’s muffled tone.

“I’m coming in. Are you decent?” announced Sherlock. He pressed his ear to the wood, hearing a shuffling like John was rolling over in his bed.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock opened the door, blinking owlishly as his eyes assimilated to the dim lighting. He wrinkled his nose at the scent of unwashed sheets and old sweat. His keen vision picked up all the indicators that John was having nightmares on a nightly basis. The smell of the room, the bite marks on the pillows and the deep purple smudges under his eyes from lack of sleep. The man himself was slumped against the stacked pillows, the Victor Hugo epic _Les Miserables_ hanging loosely from one hand. He still had unpacked boxes lined up neatly next to his desk and his gun rested to the left of his laptop.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. No, they mustn’t delay.

“We’re leaving,” he blurted.

“What?” exclaimed John.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock remembered he was meant to be completely cautious and tactful. “I would like it very much if you would accompany me away to Sussex,” he stated calmly.

“What, to visit your mum and dad again? What for?” questioned the smaller man, sitting up with suspicious eyes.

“No, not my parents. I mean my house. It’s an hour away from them, and it’s near the beach. Quiet, peaceful, utterly hateful but still. I would like us to stay there for awhile, as a bit of a holiday,” explained the taller man, going to John’s window and throwing open the drapes. He felt a little smug as John hissed in response to the stimulus of light. “Will you come?”

“What about Moriarty? I thought you were gagging to track him down and be finished once and for all,” John pushed, completely bewildered by this sudden plan. He was tempted to think it was a dream if it wasn’t for the sunlight stabbing his eyes.

“Not anymore,” said Sherlock. His gaze and his voice shut down that avenue of conversation.

“Let me get this straight. You, Sherlock Holmes, want to take time away from the chase of London, to go to Sussex with me. Why?”

Annoyed by the constant questions – why couldn’t the infuriating man just agree to the idea? – Sherlock barked, “Is it a crime to want a break? Must I justify every word, every action I make to you? I never used to!”

John silenced, his bottom lip trembling for a second before he replied, “No. It’s not. And no. You don’t have to.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock said, “I apologise for my tone. But please consider. I need to recalibrate my mind.”

A blonde eyebrow quirked upwards at that, but the detective could observe John’s resistance crumbling. “Is it nice, this place of yours?” he wondered.

“Yes. I have a housekeeper.”

Nodding, John finally muttered, “All right. Fine. We’ll go to Sussex. When?”

Sherlock checked his watch. “The train leaves in approximately three hours and forty-seven minutes. I have already packed and received the tickets via email. The flat is clean and the fridge is empty of anything that would be hazardous upon our return. The only tasks on my list to check off is for you to pack, shower, and dress, and for me to inform Mrs. Hudson of our plans,” he rattled off, feeling a momentary fission of glee at John’s wide-eyed expression of awe. “If you like I can strip your room while you shower. We can’t be late.”

“Bloody hell, you’re not messing around. When did you do all this?” John asked.

“All of this morning until I came up here to ask you,” replied Sherlock. He stared pointedly at John’s slippers. “Up. No dilly-dallying for you today, doctor.”

John grumbled and groaned as he rolled out of bed, but underneath the still healing emotional scars he had been nurturing, he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Sherlock was proving himself to be a great man once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have a look at the flower bouquets for Mary and Eleanor, they have specific meaning. The website for the language of flowers I used is this one: http://www.ecbdflowerstore.com/108085.php
> 
> I realise it may be out of character a little for Sherlock to not want to be in the 'game' but this is the vibe I got out of the end of s3. It was a deluge of 'think, think, THINK' all the time so I feel Sherlock will burn out if he doesn't stop for a bit.


	3. Apibus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock arrive in Sussex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to my lovely readers. I hope you are enjoying the story so far. This chapter is more of the 'calm' part before things start getting a little heavy. Also, still not beta'd or Brit-picked. 
> 
> If you're still concerned as to Sherlock's character and why he's acting like he is, he explains it. It'll come into play later on. 
> 
> Warnings: None, really. Maybe a swear word or two, brief mention of a naked Sherlock.

Picturesque.

It was the first word that had come to mind upon seeing Sherlock’s house. 

It was utterly charming, surprising, and simply perfect for a getaway.

The two storey cottage was honey coloured and practically glowed in the dying embers of the sunset, the copper coloured shingles on the roof catching the light, which made the dwelling look even more inviting. A hammock full of pillows swung in the breeze on the front porch. The crisp white of the railing wrapping around the porch, the front door, and the window panes added the balance of lightness needed.

It was nestled into a hillside a kilometre away from the beach and was surrounded by low hedges. John could turn from where he was and look all the way down to the sea, and wondered what it’d be like to see the ocean from the second level of the cottage. Focussing forward again, he could make out a garden full of foliage at the back of the property and a faint buzzing could be heard. An apiary. Bees.

John hadn’t realised he was gaping until he had licked his lips to wet them. “Wow,” he said reverently.

“Yes. It is aesthetically pleasing, isn’t it?”

John turned to see Sherlock gazing proudly at his house and felt the urge to smile. “Yeah. Yes, it’s quite remarkable. How long have you had this?”

“I inherited it from my great-aunt Myrtle when she passed away when I was 24. Cancer. Mycroft and I were meant to share the property but he wanted none of it and allowed me to take full ownership of the property. I actually own five acres of land. It was quite useful when I was going through rehab for the last time. It is my peace,” Sherlock revealed. He swept up the short steps, digging the keys out of his coat pocket while John was content to gaze at the house exterior. As he stepped onto the porch, he saw a brass plaque with a glorious weathered patina, transcribing a single word: _Apibus_.

“Apibus. Something with bees, isn’t it?”

“I put that there when Myrtle died. To rebirth it. I was being stupidly sentimental at the time,” the taller man explained, brushing his fingers over the chilly metal fondly. “The word itself is ‘bees’ in Latin.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to name a place,” remarked John dryly.

“I like to keep you on your toes,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. He opened up the front door, He was pleased by the quick work of Greta, the housekeeper who cared for _Apibus_ while he lived in London, to get the place sparkling clean ahead of their habitation. He flicked on the lights, bathing the area in shades from ivory to champagne to a deep amber. The open plan living/study area was cosy, a dialled down version of the bohemian style of 221B.  It was plain and yet comfortable.

John could only let his eyes devour the sight. He glanced to the left and something utterly magical happened.

He laughed.

“Of course. Only _you_ could find a bookcase that looks like a honeycomb to place in a house titled bees,” John chuckled, reaching out to run his hands over the light coloured beech wood. It was, marvellously, a bookshelf made up of hexagons stacked up on top of each other, reaching nearly to the ceiling and acting as a room divider for the library/study area. He ran his fingertips over the spines of the books, thinking of nothing but wanting to delve into Sherlock’s collection.

While John was happily perusing the titles, Sherlock had to flee into the kitchen.

John’s laugh had been unexpected. So unexpected in fact that Sherlock had felt the impulse to hug him tightly, relieved that something had brought him enjoyment – even if it was the fancifully invented hive shelf.

_Control_.

No, he had to tamp his pesky sentiment and emotions down, at least until John had let go of Mary and Eleanor. It would do no good to reveal the depths of his emotions towards a certain ex-army doctor. Not yet.

“Sherlock? Where are you? Hey, why the heck isn’t _this_ couch in Baker Street? This is loads better,” exclaimed John.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned out of the kitchen and answered, “Because I would fall asleep more often on it. I need to think while I work. This couch isn’t conducive to thinking, it’s conducive to sleeping.” He took a mental snapshot of John reclining on the deep grey couch, getting comfortable easily. Being in a hospitable mood, he went to the trunk at the foot of the sofa and pulled out a terracotta printed woolly throw and wordlessly offered it to John. The other man took it with a nod of gratitude, draping it over himself and turning over the book in his hand.

“You mind if I-?”

“It’s fine, relax. I’ll go put everything away,” Sherlock assured him.

John settled in with a sigh, the constant frown that had been hanging around his brow softening. The change of setting had already affected him. This was a house free of entangled emotional baggage for him – a clean slate.

Curiously (although not curious enough to get up and have a proper look), he scrutinised the layout of the room.

He had already seen the library like study area. It was like stepping into a cocoon-ish kind of hive. Save for the hive shelves, the rest of the bookshelves that lined the walls and above the wide bay windows were a deep, rich mahogany and crammed full of assorted objects and books. A small desk sat in the middle of the area, the same mahogany wood inlaid with mother of pearl.

The living area was a blend of the rustic and the modern in a way only Sherlock could do it.

In the corner was a small semi-circle fireplace, a fresh pile of wood and coal in buckets placed nearby for easy reach. The slate-grey stained floorboards were covered by a striped black and white carpet with the same style of coffee table as in 221B resting upon it. A low mahogany sideboard bore a large TV complete with a video and dvd player. To the left of the TV was a Newton’s cradle, upon which Sherlock had glued (oddly enough) cubes of Lego. A large sea shell was placed neatly to the side of it. On the coffee table lay a silver bowl filled with a collection of sea glass and some old crumpled up notepaper.

John fixed his eyes on the canvas art by the entryway, having to almost twist his head back to see it, because the colours were a direct contrast to the cream and honey patterned wallpaper. Dark splashes of black, purple and vermillion formed the background, while someone had artfully painted a full anatomy diagram of a bee – all in white.

He settled back, feeling the weariness in his bones as he opened up the book on pirate ships of the 18th century. The stark contrast between the lush, quiet countryside and  the hubbub of London had dampened the cutting edges of his emotions for the time being but John knew, with almost medical certainty, this was a brief lull. There was still a hollow ache within him and he had so much to sort out. It was time for a little soul searching.

However it would have to wait. John was so exhausted that he had barely read the third page of the book when his eyes closed in slumber.

* * *

The first thing John was aware of was warmth and the faint smell of something frying.

Blinking in surprise, John sighed in relief at the knowledge he had no nightmares in the three hour nap. A feat, considering every time he had closed his eyes lately, he had been inundated with images of death, Mary, Sherlock, Eleanor, the war, Afghanistan, and even some people he didn’t even know. Stretching, he sat up, noticing the book he had attempted to read placed neatly on the coffee table and that the throw had been tucked in around him.

That was puzzling. Sherlock had never seemed the type to do little things like this.

Then again, they hadn’t lived together for a while. And Sherlock had done little things before the Fall – his memory had been dulled by the pain and anger of the fake suicide that he had almost forgotten how his flatmate would play the most beautiful violin pieces when he had trouble sleeping, or sat through all the Bond films, and even made breakfast in bed for John once when he was ill.

When he stood, John took in the little details. He knew by the nightfall it was somewhere around 8.30pm and that Sherlock had taken his bags somewhere. He noticed all the lights in the living room had been dimmed, and that there was a brighter light shining out of an archway at the back of the room.

The doctor sniffed the air experimentally. Yep, there was definitely something frying.

He blearily stumbled towards the light, blinking owlishly as he found himself in the kitchen and dining area.

“Nice nap?” Sherlock asked without turning from his post at the stove, carefully turning over the crumbed fish fillets in the pan.

“Mmm.” John rubbed his hands over his eyes and indulged the curiosity at the forefront of his mind. The kitchen was a polar opposite to the living area with its shades of grey, brown, ochre and cream. It was done in tasteful dark blue and white, the pale ash wood bench tops giving it a seaside feel. Even the kitchen accessories matched. “Did you play interior designer with this place?”

“Mm. I tried to pick the schemes I wouldn’t like in London but suited what I’m like here.”

“And what are you like here?” asked John as he noticed the spiral staircase twirling up to the second storey in an alcove next to a door that led outside.

Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead he went about finishing off their supper, John watching incredulously. Sherlock had rarely cooked anything more complicated than pasta or eggs on toast the whole time he had known him. When Sherlock bent down to check on the vegetables in the oven, he said acerbically, “If you’re going to do nothing but stare, you could at least make yourself useful and fetch the white wine from the fridge. It’ll go well with the fish.”

Muttering something like, “Sure thing you posh bastard,” the shorter man did as he was bid, pouring two generous glasses and poking around the kitchen to find cutlery and napkins to set up the nearby table (white painted driftwood, expertly cobbled together and sealed in white. Definitely unlike 221B). He settled back, remembering all the times he had cooked at Baker Street, the endless rows over trying to get Sherlock to eat, the (eventual) quiet gratitude for his efforts. The recollection stung, bittersweet. How the tables had turned.

The brunette effortlessly turned the fish out onto their plates, served up with the roasted tomatoes and sweet potatoes and sat down with a flourish. “After dinner I will answer your question. But now, eat. The conversation is not one to conduct with an empty stomach,” Sherlock intoned, taking a sip of the wine.

“Conversation? What are you, setting up for some sort of deep and meaningful,” John joked weakly.

Sherlock’s pale eyes locked on his and he replied, “Something  like that. Now eat. You needn’t be alarmed.”

“Talking doesn’t alarm me,” John protested.

They both knew that was a lie.

Sherlock wisely chose not to push the matter, cutting delicately into the potatoes. He accepted John’s praise of the meal with a waving of his fork, lost in his own head. He was reviewing everything to do with John’s emotions, reactions, and circumstances since his return, calculating where to push and where not to in the upcoming days.

They were going to sort themselves out even if it meant screaming at each other until they were hoarse, or tussling out in the yard until the need for physical violence wore off.

Additionally, he had been honest when coaxing John to join him here. He did need to recalibrate his mind. Perhaps if he had done it properly when he had returned to London, he would have noticed and paid attention to Mary a little more. Perhaps he would have been sharper when dealing with Magnussen. Perhaps he should have known to place some sort of guard on Mary so she wouldn’t have died and left John like this. Perhaps if he had done that…John would still be (relatively) happy.

“Oi,” John broke into his thoughts softly. “You’re brooding. That’s my job.”

“Hmm? Oh. Just thinking,” murmured the lanky detective.

“Not surprised.” As he speared a juicy tomato, John lapsed into his own thoughtful silence, thinking of the dinners he and Mary had shared. Of the closeness. And of the parallel feelings of those moments and those when it was he and Sherlock eating together before the Fall. That low humming of affection.

He shut down that line of thinking immediately. No. That was history.

The stillness between them was companionable. It continued as they cleared up the kitchen afterwards until they retired to the sitting room. John felt the first prickles of nervousness, like acupuncture needles, settling himself down onto the grey couch as Sherlock sat opposite him on the other end, his body turned towards him. He gulped as those grey blue eyes locked onto him with laser focus.

Oh hell, he wasn’t going to like this.

“You asked me what I’m like when I’m here. The straight answer to this is I’m not like I am in London. I told you, this place is my peace. I force my brain to slow. To recalibrate,” Sherlock began to explain in a grave tone. “I am also more, what you would undoubtedly term, domestic. I cook. I tidy up more than usual. I garden, tend to my bees, and I sometimes spend days doing nothing but sitting out on the hammock and reading. I know my upcoming behaviour will surprise you like it did earlier tonight as I prepared our meal. Don’t be. This is me letting down my guard, and I haven’t done this for years. Not to the extent I am prepared to do with our stay.”

John gaped, prompting Sherlock to roll his eyes. “Additionally, I will talk. About everything and anything, no matter how uncomfortable it will be for me, no matter how much I would like to ignore it, make it go away, delete it and emotion from by being – but you need this. _You_ need to talk as well,” he said determinedly.

“Talk about-“

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” Sherlock cut him off ruthlessly, throwing out the observation, “Your whole body contracted and shrunk away from me before, denoting displeasure for talking. I know you hate it. I detest it with every cell in my being, but we have issues.” Noticing John’s face hardening, blanking emotionally, he gentled his tone and explained, “This is not just about Mary and Eleanor and to reconcile how you feel about that debacle. This is also about our pasts. This is about our present and our future. And as much has you may have said I am your best friend, and that you have forgiven me, I can tell that you are holding back. You may care for me, but you are cautious. Cautious about me hurting you again and again, and you are questioning, even though you flick the thoughts away, if my regard for you as my best friend is genuine. I will not return to London unless we get through the emotional mire.” The words were a promise, sealed by the warmth of the fire in the corner of the room.

John just gazed at him. Sherlock could feel his expression and body language scrutinized by that outwardly calm blue gaze. He barely breathed for fear that the man’s rarely utilised ‘flee’ instinct would take effect. He just waited patiently for John to make the choice. To either stay or return to London.

“How long would you stay to work everything out?” the doctor asked softly, his face easing out of its rigid lines gradually. “Even if I made us talk about uncomfortable things, if I storm out, curse you, rage like a madman, hurt you…would you stay?”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Sherlock replied, “I would stay for at least a year. After a year, I’d have to evaluate if our friendship would require repairing using professionals.” Sensing the last of his friend’s hesitation crumble with his words, he promised, “I won’t give up.”

John nodded, emotionless save for the flash of assurance displayed. “Good.”

Sherlock mimicked the movement and stood. “I have placed your bags in the guest room. It’s the second door in the hallway, while the bathroom is at the end of it. There is nowhere you are prohibited from going while you are here. Good night,” he farewelled, memorising John’s face by the firelight before heading up to his bedroom.

When there, he undressed in a kind of trace, the movements mechanical, rehearsed. He stood nude by the window, gazing out towards the sea – hoping that the coming days would not be overly difficult. He feared he had taken on too hard a task. Not only being a confidant to John, but confessing, giving out information about himself. He would be naked, and not just physically.

Half dressed in pyjama bottoms and letting the cold winter’s night press onto his skin, Sherlock let the doubts fester in his mind, pouring out into his dreams. 


	4. Tantibus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nightmare prompts the first of many honest and emotional talks from Sherlock and John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A nightmare sequence which features mentions of violence and death. Swearing. Dipping into the OOC territory because these two idiots need to talk things out. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has subscribed, commented, or given me kudos on this fic. I hope you continue to enjoy. 
> 
> Also, still not beta'd or Brit-picked.

_Mary leapt over the delicately decorated tables, shouting gleefully as people scurried away from her in fear. She waved her gun around, her wedding dress whirling along in her maniacal joy. “Coming to get you! Coming to get you!” she crowed, hopping from table to table._

_John was frozen, stripped down to his trousers and vest, handcuffed to the top table where he had sat and eaten his wedding dinner. He watched in anticipating dread as the room cleared of everyone save for he and Mary._

_“Oh, now we’re alone, husband,” she purred, moving towards him with a low, swinging walk. Any other time, John would have labelled it as sexy, seductive, but now he could see the manipulation – to intimidate him, reminding him that she was free while he was bound._

_“Don’t do anything rash,” he warned. The blood was pounding in his head, becoming louder and louder with each step she took towards him._

_“Oh? No, I know what I’m doing. I want your heart. I’ll do anything to get it. I want you to belong to me forever,” Mary said with serious intent. She licked her lips and continued, “Even if it means no one else gets to have it.”_

_“What? Wait. Don’t-“ John stammered, scrambling to get away as he saw the gun raised, silencer gleaming in the light._

_“No!” cried a new voice, one so familiar. The trapped man shouted in alarm as he watched Sherlock come barrelling in from the side, just as the gun went off. From the sickening thud, he knew it had landed. Sherlock collapsed to the ground, a bloodstain already blooming across his chest._

_“Sherlock!” he yelled._

_Sherlock gazed weakly up at him, the light dying from his eyes as he whispered, “John.”_

_“John.”_

_“John.”_

* * *

“John. Wake up. Wake up. Are you there? Come on you silly doctor of mine, _get up!_ ”

John bolted upright, almost head butting Sherlock in the process, breathing heavily and his pulse racing. He gasped with relief as he visually checked to see Sherlock completely alive, breathing, and conclusively _not_ bleeding. “Oh fuck,” he groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose gingerly.

“Nightmare?” Sherlock queried softly.

“Yep.”

“You were calling my name,” Sherlock stated, though John knew it was a question.

“Mary shot you. At my wedding this time. And this time she didn’t miss,” the ash blond answered shortly. He wanted to get back to sleep, forget about the screwed up imaginings his subconscious was torturing him with in these hours. To divert his thoughts, he took in Sherlock’s appearance. The man was barefooted, dressed only in loose pyjama bottoms and his blue silk dressing gown. The medical caretaker part of him prompted him to reach out and skim across the skin of the taller man’s hand. “Good god, you’re fucking freezing. You should be bundled up more,” he chided.

Sherlock shrugged. As his face turned towards the window, casting more light on his features, John noticed other little details he hadn’t before.

Sherlock appeared gaunt in the thready light from the half moon, his eyes haunted and exhausted. His lips were pursed and he did, indeed, shiver. He was tense from perching on the edge of the bed John occupied, emphasising the juddering of his frame.

And yet, all he said was, “I’m fine.”

“Ha, maybe we’ll both believe that of ourselves one day,” John said bitterly.

“You’re not the only one whose subconscious ravages their minds during the night,” Sherlock replied wryly.

John’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“I came here to see if you were having a better night than myself. You weren’t. I hope you didn’t mind my waking you up,” the curly headed man murmured.

“I don’t mind. I probably would have run into your room otherwise to make sure it – my dream – wasn’t real,” the shorter man assured him, inching over so he could get a better read on what his friend was thinking and feeling. “Do you want to talk about your nightmare?”

Sherlock worried his lower lip between his lip before replying, somewhat off-topically, “We never talked about the Fall. Really. I never told you how I accomplished it. I never told you why. And I never told you what happened on my travels to bring down Moriarty’s network.” He finally met John’s eyes and he promised, “I will tell you all of it whenever you want to hear it. No dodging. No wit, no avoidance. Only if and when you ask me and I am not in an enclosed space.”

“Okay. But…the dream?” prodded John, curious, but feeling a churning sensation in his gut.

Sherlock’s gaze broke off from the searching indigo blue pair, and he fixated instead on the thick grey bedspread, twirling a stray thread between his fingers. His ribs had a phantom ache from the memory he had reviewed in his sleep, and he cringed. “I was back in the bowels of Venice in this nightmare of mine. It was there I took down an assassin who was of great importance and rank in the web. However, he had other connections in the city and his gang found me, kidnapped me, trapped me in a cellar that filled halfway with water at high tide. I dreamed their savagery towards me. I recalled the exact events with precision, such sharp clarity, I almost didn’t realise I was dreaming,” he explained haltingly, shutting his eyes tight against the memories. He almost jumped, startled, when John’s warm hand touched his own.

“God, we’re a pair aren’t we?” John mused self-depreciatingly. He shook his head. “We’re both  idiots.”

“No. You’re not, contrary to what I have said in the past. Not to me,” Sherlock whispered.

“But I am. You’re right. We should have discussed all that stuff, even if you never volunteered the information. What kind of doctor, what kind of friend doesn’t make sure you’re okay after taking two years off to become Batman,” argued John. He caught Sherlock’s bewilderment at the ‘Batman’ reference and waved it off. “I was just so angry with you, and-“

Sherlock squeezed the warm hand in his own tightly, halting John’s words. “That’s a conversation to be held at another time, I think. But I’m apologising once more. I’m sorry I did that to you, to be gone so long and letting you believe I was dead. If I had been the type to share, I would have sat you down and made you listen. But you had a new life with Mary. What was the point of dredging up all of it?”

John’s stare was stern, not allowing Sherlock (or himself), off the hook. “Still,” he pointed out, “I shut you out. Oh sure we sort of settled things and we solved cases, we had fun, you were my best man, but I shut you out regardless. It was stupid and wrong of me. Even if I didn’t realise it at the time.”

“You have a notable history of trust issues. _I_ was stupid for thinking you would simply accept me back with little obstacle. You care for me, and you trust me to watch your back, save your life, help you out with wedding planning, but you feel like you cannot trust your emotions to me once more. Because you knew you wouldn’t be able to go through with it again.” There was something vulnerable and fragile about Sherlock laying out John’s mental being, and that openness was the only thing preventing John’s strong sense of denial from flaring. “I have also confused you by being more human. More in touch with my emotional side. Unfortunately, I have rediscovered it from the locked vault inside my head. It is a weakness. It can be toyed with. However, I would not give these new…emotions up because your friendship and belief in me as a decent human being has unlocked them,” he finished. Before John could say a word, Sherlock yanked his hand up and stalked out.

“Aw, hell, he wasn’t kidding about the talking,” the doctor grumbled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. The corners of his mouth turned down in consternation. Sherlock had unerringly hit right on target. He was confused about Sherlock’s behaviour lately. He wasn’t trusting himself to the detective like he used to, but could you blame him? Sherlock had tricked him into thinking he was dead. It had ripped him apart like nothing had before – the ridiculous man was the first person he had trusted outside of his army regiment with his life since his parents…

No. Don’t think about them. John clamped his hands to his head in frustration, quickly shutting the door on that topic.

Sherlock had obliterated that trust with his return.

‘ _You hit him three times when he returned, made him bleed. He didn’t fight you back. He has never physically attacked you except to provoke a punch in return,’_  the voice of rationality whispered in his mind. For anyone else, that would have been penance enough. But John’s trust issues had enclosed him in a cage where he was internally screaming for the world to stop hurting him.

Was he a masochist?

Sherlock’s words haunted him, slowly turning over in his mind. “Fuck,” John swore, hoisting himself out of bed, jamming his socked feet into slippers. His mind was now racing and he was desperate to still it.

Tea. Tea was always the answer for him.

He noted that Sherlock’s room was empty as he passed the open door, and sighed, knowing he would find the man downstairs. Using the railing to guide him, John tottered down the spiral staircase, feet padding quietly – just enough to let Sherlock know he was coming down. The doctor, while not as observant as his genius friend, was glad to notice the kettle had been boiled and a camomile teabag set out for him next to a hand-painted mug. John noted the texture of the green swirls and zigzags on the side of the earthenware as he poured himself a cup. He wondered idly who had been talented enough to produce such a pretty design.

Mug in hand, he wandered into the lounge room, where Sherlock was perched on the low armchair next to the fire, his fingers steepled  underneath his chin. “Cheers,” John muttered, raising his cup of steaming tea.

The taller man nodded, the move strangely birdlike in the half-shadow of a floor lamp.

John took the couch. He could see the placement of seating for what it was. Sherlock was giving him space. The space to choose the next step. It struck him – the sensation feeling like a powerful blow to his sternum – how much power he held in their friendship. He could tell Sherlock that he didn’t want to do any talking – that he didn’t want to hear any explanations because it would just keep hurting and wouldn’t achieve anything. He could leave, return to Baker Street and pretend that Sherlock hadn’t promised to fight for their relationship. He could move away and Sherlock wouldn’t stop him.

It was a heady rush to realise how in control he was of the situation.

The question was, was he going to do what was right, or what was easy?

John allowed himself a brief, bitter smirk. He had been striving to do everything in his life by taking the right path even if it was a difficult one. Training to be a doctor, signing up to the army to protect his country (and give his bedridden mother funds so she wouldn’t pay for his education), standing up for Sherlock and believing in him, sticking by Mary and the baby – these had all been decisions to do the good and righteous thing, even if they had brought him pain and hardship.

It would be all too easy to deviate from this pattern and take the trouble-free path. To leave. There could be only so much he could take.

He mentally slapped himself. Choosing to be a coward and run from merely _discussing_ painful events was not easy as well as not being right.

As much as he was reluctant to admit it, perhaps this would be the catharsis he needed.

And who else to bear the brunt of all his damaged psyche but the man who was opening himself up for the blows? Sherlock was waiting for him, baring himself for punishment. John felt slightly sick, to know that his friend was prepared to do so much, even if he was hurt in the process, to make sure John could work through his issues.

“I’m not leaving,” John announced several long minutes after he had finished his tea.

“Ah. Well, thank you. I was concerned I had burdened you with too much,” Sherlock replied.

“Ha. I used to think that a severed head in the fridge was burdening me with too much. It seems so small now,” the blond mused.

Sherlock chuckled weakly, saying, “I ended up not recording anything about that experiment. Mycroft disposed of it before I could.”

“Ah, that bastard,” John said, catching his friend’s expression of annoyance. When Sherlock looked at him fondly in their shared exasperation with the machinations of Mycroft, John allowed himself to imagine what he would have felt if he left, cut himself off completely from Sherlock.

It felt like he had after Reichenbach with the added irritation of not seeing him for a month or so after his wedding. That cold numbness he carried with him now with Mary and Eleanor’s passing, but tripled and coated in heavier regrets. And the knowledge he had refused what Sherlock was offering. A chance to repair the cracks in the foundations of their friendship. It made him tense.

“John?” Sherlock questioned quietly. He hid his own apprehension as he watched emotion after emotion flicker over John’s face. He knew each expression intimately, having catalogued them in his mind – he could never bring himself to be rid of John’s face. As much as John had promised he wouldn’t leave, there was no guarantee. They were too fragile to be firm in their promises. He wanted to curl up in a ball with his hands on his head to make all his thoughts _stop_ , for it to be blank, so he couldn’t worry about losing John again.

“I’m just trying to process…tell me something. Why are you letting me call the shots? It’s not like you,” John asked shrewdly.

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps I’m trying to leave us on a level playing field. It has been brought to my attention that I may have dominated a lot of our early days as flatmates. I’m just-“

“No. That’s not it. I know you said that I’ve somehow unlocked your emotions, but that doesn’t add up. That’s too simple,” interrupted John determinedly. He picked up the uncomfortable body language practically shining like a lighthouse beacon from his friend, but he needed to know why he was suddenly plonked into the driver’s seat without a map, GPS, or having any idea where he was going.

Sherlock growled, feeling backed unexpectedly into a corner, and snapped, “I can’t lose you. Not again. I thought I was fine being alone for all of my life with only passing acquaintances for information and to work with. Then I met you, and I tasted true companionship, and I brushed it off like a toddler getting rid of sand in a sandpit. I faked my death to stop Moriarty, and then I knew loneliness again. But this wasn’t like before. It ached and wouldn’t leave me alone. I felt like someone had left a hole in my head. I was intimately connected with nothingness again and I found I didn’t care for it one whit.” He bit his tongue to keep the bile down. Revealing his hidden nature was something he hardly did because it was against everything he had trained himself to be.

But John needed to hear the words. They both did.

“I am letting you choose what _you need_ because if I forced your thoughts in a certain direction, or made you stay here – even if it’s what I want – I would never have your genuine companionship or forgiveness,” he finished, raising his gaze to John’s.

John absorbed this, clicking the jigsaw pieces together one by one. Little indicators from their recent time together, the best man speech (the memory of which was dimmed and almost forgotten next to his excitement about his wedding night) where Sherlock had confessed his roundabout care for him, admitted to everyone there how he had thought so little of himself that he would never have a friend like John. It made so much sense in hindsight why the force of their companionship was slowly shifting into his hands.

“We’re both idiots,” John muttered, repeating his earlier words.

“Perhaps. Emotionally only,” Sherlock protested.

John sighed, unable to bear the distance anymore and rose, stepping over the coffee table to yank Sherlock up and hug him fiercely. “Thank you,” he whispered into the broad shoulder.

Sherlock froze, before relief made him tremble as his own hands hesitantly wrapped the shorter man. “We’re not used to this,” he observed from their tight postures.

“No. I’m not in the habit of hugging my mates after these sorts of conversations,” John agreed. “It may help though. We’re both not that tactile, so maybe forcing ourselves out of the moulds we are in will make us sort ourselves out.”

Sherlock shut his eyes slowly, rumbling, “Perhaps.” He took the brief seconds to inhale the scent of John, tucking it away for him to peruse at a later time. He smelled of the salty sea, along with a light tinge of sweat from his nightmare, and something earthy and fresh. He loosened his grip and John slid out of his hold.

“We’re good?” checked John, searching his eyes.

The taller man nodded. “Of course.” 


	5. A Long Awaited Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Sherlock talks to John about Reichenbach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Once again thank you to those who have left comments/kudos or subscribed. You're all wonderful. Just a note to say that the next chapter may take longer than a week to get out because I'm participating in the latest Johnlock gift exchange and I need to write for that. 
> 
> This fic is still not Beta'd or Brit Picked. 
> 
> Warnings: Discussion about grief/anger/murder, hinted sex etc.

John woke up alone in his bed.

He choked the urge to scream before it rose as he looked over at the empty side of the bed, missing Mary with a pang. When things had been good between them, they had been _fantastic_. Before the deceit was revealed, he would wake up every morning knowing he was loved, loving her so much, knowing they were about to become a family with a baby on the way. Blessed normality. And the morning sex! It had always been playful with Mary. There was never anything really serious about their lovemaking, it was all lightness and pleasure and orgasms.

Those wonderful memories had the dark cast of betrayal tinting them, robbing them of their sweetness.

John knew he had to let go. The task loomed before him, appearing frightfully easy. But was it really? Was his rage and angst riddled feelings towards his late wife’s duplicity enough to push him past the well of grief? Frustrated at the endless looping thoughts that seemed to play every day at least once, John wished that he sometimes couldn’t care so much. Maybe if he hadn’t given his heart away so easily to one of the only people to see past the malaise filled days after Sherlock’s fall, his life would have turned out differently.

Mary had been too easy to love, though, when they met. Looking back, it was almost pathetic how much he had craved another’s caring touch and tender words that the first woman who lasted more than a month was the one he gave all his guarded heart to.

His eyes wet, the ash blond got up, got dressed in a warm striped jumper and jeans, not bothering to put on his boots, and went into the bathroom to perform his morning routine. The bathroom looked out over the backyard, a peaceful setting to soothe his troubled mind. The grass, plants, and other foliage were surprisingly green (if a little frost-covered) for it being almost the end of January. As he shaved and washed, John wondered what it would be like, just to lie in that springy grass all day and do nothing but stare at the sky. He hadn’t done such whimsical things since he was a child – John reckoned he was about due.

As he was finishing up, he saw Sherlock exit the glassed in back veranda, dressed in a beekeeper’s outfit, bulky headgear and all. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering the detective had dressed up as a clown for a case, but the sight was intriguing. A bud of curiosity popped up in John’s mind as he wondered what Sherlock was going to do with his hives.

Making his way down the hall, intending to go down to the kitchen to start breakfast, John noticed a another door on the second level he hadn’t last night. Next to the linen cupboard, diagonally situated between his and Sherlock’s bedroom door, it was easy to miss late at night, bleary from a hard day. It didn’t have a handle and was flush with the wall, a jamb to mark its position, instead a little gold latch that was almost lost in the expanse of champagne coloured wallpaper was the only method to open it.

Unable to keep from prying (Sherlock had, after all, basically told John there wasn’t anywhere he couldn’t go), John opened up the door and stuck his head in.

He was expecting it to be Sherlock’s lab away from home.

He was half-right. On the left side of the small, brightly lit room stood a workbench with Sherlock’s usual collection of experimental glassware, all clean, untouched for a while. Underneath the bench were a couple of fridges and an endless mess of drawers.

What surprised John was the other side of the room. In the middle of the opposite cleared space stood an easel, a stool to the side, and a narrow desk upon which were piles of paint, blank canvases, paintbrushes and a few jars of paint cleaner.

John couldn’t help but smirk. Sherlock never ceased to make him marvel at the many sides to this multi-faceted man he called his best friend. Apparently the genius had the craving for the artistic, not just the musical arts. He couldn’t wait to see what Sherlock would say when asked about his apparent passion for painting.

Inquisitiveness sated for now, the ex-soldier continued downstairs and began to make breakfast. He noted that they would have to travel to one of the nearby towns – be it Brighton or Eastbourne – to replenish their supplies within the next day. Still, feeling like he should indulge after the emotional havoc of last night, he grabbed a few kipflers and sausages for a hash, placing the eggs off to the side for the later stages in cooking.

He was almost done when Sherlock returned from the apiary, hair mussed but bright-eyed and lively. “Good morning,” he greeted, breezing past John to fetch juice from the fridge. “No other sleep interruptions then.”

John shook his head. He wondered how Sherlock had deduced that, considering he had cleaned himself up fairly well this morning. “Morning to you too. How are your bees?”

Sherlock smiled, bright and blinding, a smile John hadn’t seen for a long, long time. “They are wonderful, considering I haven’t tended to them in quite a while. Greta does a fantastic job – my housekeeper. She only lives three houses behind on the other side of the hill,” he described happily. “Right now the hive is looking after the queen bee as she’s laying her brood. They’re producing food and heat so her and her eggs survive – I have placed wind blocks around the hives and partially wrapped them to keep out the cold and help with the process. When springtime comes it will be a magnificent season to observe them. If we should stay that long of course.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” John assured him, preparing their plates.

Despite the chill of the room – he reminded himself to turn the heater up – Sherlock felt a burst of warmth at John’s words. That he would be able to share that with his friend would be a life-changing occurrence.

While they were eating, John pointed out, “We don’t have enough food for after tomorrow morning. Unless you plan for us to sustain ourselves on the seven cans of beans you got in your pantry.”

“Passive-aggressive John? Unlike you. You could always ask to go shopping,” Sherlock bantered back shrewdly.

“Yeah…but you hate shopping. I was just going to take the Jeep-" 

“I only find it useless in London. Here…It’s not as bad. Not as much chemical in the air, not as many people all in a hurry and wanting other people to be in just as much as a hurry as they are. I have a few favourite stores if you would be so inclined,” Sherlock said. “We’ll also need to let the local paper run to drop off a two newspapers daily.”

“Why two?” asked a puzzled John. Domestic Sherlock was blowing his mind right now. It was too bloody early for this.

“Because you get cross when I finish your crosswords.”

They shared smiles of familiarity before turning their attention back to their plates.

* * *

A few days passed as the pair settled in. When they weren’t eating their meals or going to a locally-run supermarket in Eastbourne for supplies, Sherlock was often bundled up and out of _Apibus_ , usually in the garden, making sure the winter chill wasn’t going to destroy his hives, or visiting Greta (who John surmised was a lot like Mrs. Hudson, but perhaps less dotty and more knowledgeable about the bees). Occasionally, he even sat in the hammock and read thick tomes on biology and chemistry, re-honing his practical knowledge. Even when he wasn’t sleeping, he was quiet in the lab/art room. He was giving John his space in every way.

John didn’t know if he was grateful for that or aggravated.

He settled on grateful. In the past few days he had unburied a thick black leather bound journal from his laptop bag and sat on the wonderful couch in the living room and wrote. His pen flew across the blank pages, filling them with rich ebony ink – his thoughts and feelings translated through his hand to be recorded.

Purging the results of his introspection in a more traditional method of writing than blogging.

It helped, little bit by little bit, to give a voice (figuratively speaking) to what he was feeling inside.

Chief and paramount was the seemingly endless maze of grief – all clueless directions and dead ends. Once he got past the pain of losing Mary and Eleanor (he noted that it hurt to lose Eleanor more than Mary), he had already filled up twenty pages. John flicked back over the past few pages and grimaced at the absolute word vomit splashed across them. Like a loosening chokehold, though, he felt like he was coming up for air each time he purged a bit more of his emotion.

Next he addressed the anger.

He knew grief he could deal with. Grief was almost easy compared to the tangled threads of anger and confusion knotted somewhere in his heart.

The words were scribbled down so fast and hard that he almost punctured the paper.

John was shocked to see how much he had repressed. He was angry at Mary for being a liar, first and foremost. Mostly because he believed he was a reasonable man, and that if she had been straight with him from the beginning, he wouldn’t have minded. He was a very accepting person, a very forgiving one. He let people have their quirks and habits – they didn’t bother him. Mary’s past? So what, as long as she loved him, it wouldn’t have mattered if he knew.

John paused, noting that maybe he wouldn’t have. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so accepting if Mary’s past had included torturing children or perhaps working for Moriarty (the thought made him feel physically ill if that were the case).

What made him even more upset was that he would never know for sure. She had kept so much hidden. Mary had been the human equivalent of an iceberg – only showing a facade, the tip of her being, while a great portion of it was hidden and mysterious.

He had written all of this down.

He then started moving on to his anger at Mary for shooting Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to move on entirely too quickly from the fact someone he knew (and felt a modicum of affection for – John wasn’t stupid, he knew Sherlock had treated Mary as a good friend) had almost killed him.

Oh yes. John knew.

It had been during the months after finding out Mary’s secret – those agonizing tension filled months where he bounced between the occasional nights at 221B, his house, his car, and the surgery – that he had mustered up the courage to see how close Sherlock had come to death (again!). The doctor knew all too well that it was nothing short of miraculous that Sherlock was still here on this mortal plane, his heart having stopped on the operating table just as the bullet had been retrieved. Sherlock had technically been dead for over a minute when he had abruptly come back into full function. By all means, Sherlock shouldn’t have come back to life.

So yes, a big part of resentment towards Mary was that she had almost taken Sherlock away. Sherlock, one of the best things to ever happen to him.

She had been so selfish in her desires, and John could see that clearly now.

And John was angry at himself because of it.

He was completely blaming the fresh countryside air for most of the clarity in his thoughts – bringing everything up, looking at it objectively first and then subjectively, and then packing it back away sealed with the knowledge he had dealt with it, was a necessary pain.

It was the fourth day of John writing as therapy when he put down his pen and went to look for Sherlock.

It was late afternoon, almost time for his friend to return to the cottage so they could prepare dinner together, and John had filled over half the journal. While he still felt twinges of hurt and loneliness, it was getting better. Before he went any further and finished on the topic of Mary and started on the cut off of impending fatherhood with Eleanor, it occurred to him that he needed something from Sherlock.

As he exited through the back porch, John took a deep breath and let it out.

God, this was so brilliant and peaceful.

While he thrived on adrenalin and being useful, Sherlock had the right idea in coming here. There had never been so little pressure on him in his life to do anything. He never realised how demanding the journey of his life had been until he had completely and utterly stopped and resisted the pull of the real world.

Shaking off the tendrils of melancholy that threatened to drag him under, John made his way towards the hives at the back of the garden. He began to wonder just how far Sherlock had ventured out when he discovered the area around the hives devoid of his favourite madman. He doubted Sherlock was at the beach, and he remembered that Greta would be at church around this time. He tried to put himself in Sherlock’s shoes as he wandered out of the garden. Idly, he glanced up and stared in disbelief.

“You nutter,” John muttered affectionately.

On top of the hill behind the cottage was Sherlock, leaning against a weathervane that John was certain wasn’t there yesterday. Must have been Sherlock’s project of the day. The self proclaimed ridiculous man was staring out towards the ocean, the hem of his coat rippled by the wind. He seemed pensive, in thought.

“Oi!” John called, cupping his hands around his mouth to make the sound travel further.

Sherlock heard him, his head turning minutely in his direction. Although he couldn’t see his expression clearly, John was sure Sherlock had just quirked his eyebrows up in question.

“You mind coming down?” he shouted.

The tall, graceful form of the man moved effortlessly down the hill, silent and dappled by the winter sun. When he reached John, he tilted his head, his eyes flickering around to expertly read John’s body language. He seemed to know what his friend was about to request and sighed. “We’re going to have _that_ conversation then?” Sherlock asked quietly, mouth tightening in displeasure.

“Yes. I think it’s about time,” John said.

“No doubt. Fine. I’ll keep my promise – I will speak freely,” emphasised Sherlock. Upon seeing John’s nod, he headed off across the grounds back to _Apibus_ , the other man trailing after him and marvelling how Sherlock had discovered his intentions simply by his expression.

* * *

Sherlock had let John cook tonight – by the smell, pasta, pesto sauce, grilled shrimp ready to be served on top. He was currently sitting in the study’s bay window, the side of his face against the glass, not registering the usual stunning view of the landscape outside. He was letting all of his memories out of the iron cast vaults in preparation for the conversation that was to follow dinner.

Reichenbach. The fall.

Sherlock had calculated that John would choose this topic first at a 98% confidence. It was the catalyst. The moment that had thrown their lives into utter chaos (even more so than usual). It was the cesspool of regret, shattered emotions and revelations that were better left alone (or were they?).

It was Sherlock’s custom to be in tight control of his transport, this pale frame he called a body. So it was aggravating him now that he felt a churning in the pit of his stomach, the same sensation he had experienced on the stag night before he had splattered vomit all over the horrendous shag carpet in the flat Tessa had shown them. It was ridiculous to feel nauseous about an upcoming talk. It was beneath him and the force of his intellect to feel apprehension of all things. It wasn’t as if John was going to punch him again. That urge was sure to have been quashed.

Or...maybe it wasn’t.

John was unpredictable when he chose to be.

There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t feel rage again. For all Sherlock knew, John would be furious that Sherlock hadn’t decided to take him away so they could _both_ bring down Moriarty’s network. Sherlock’s brows contracted, frowning. If he knew what he did now back then…then yes, he would have taken John. He hadn’t understood how vital John had become.

The fall. A catalyst.

His mouth turned down in a moue of distaste. A cliché – the epiphanies prompted by life changing moments.

“Sherlock,” John called, snapping the detective back into the present. He paused, listening to the scrape of tongs on the metal pan, the light clinks as John divided the food (always evenly, Sherlock had found throughout the course of being flatmates, regardless of whether Sherlock ate or not) and placed the plates on the table. The fridge opening. Going for the wine perhaps? Fortification for what was ahead. Ah, John. Ever the soldier. He stood, meeting John at the table. Quick body language check – yes, John was a little tense as well, but mostly settled. Calm. Sure. A complete turnaround to the rigid tension and defeat when they first arrived. Good, he was working through his issues.

“Hey, it’s going cold,” John prompted, pointedly tapping his fork against Sherlock’s plate.

Sherlock blinked, nodding. He allowed himself an extra second just to capture that beloved (no, that normal, not beloved) face. Lines smooth, eyes slightly hoping, earnest.

Friend.

“Thank you. It’s delicious,” he blurted.

“You haven’t even tasted it.”

“The smell. Indicator enough,” Sherlock replied, finally depositing a forkful of the pasta into his mouth and chewing. His expression was surely one that conveyed, ‘see-of-course-it’s-delicious-I-knew-it.’ John favoured him with his half-exasperated, half-fond look in return, purposefully stabbing a prawn with his fork and chewing it with vigour.

All too soon their evening meal was finished, the dishes cleaned and stacked away, and both men found themselves ensconced on opposite ends of the sofa, facing each other but unable to fix their gazes.

It was John who broke the strange stalemate, clearing his throat with a small smile, tipping the snifter of brandy towards Sherlock as a cue. “All right. You know what I want. I want to know how you faked your death. And I want to know _why_ ,” he murmured, voice low and grave, holding himself perfectly still as he waited for the other man to explain.

Sherlock wished that he could pause the world, or at least pause John, keep him in this moment of waiting, searching for the answer that could give him the necessary tools to keep writing in that thick journal of his. He pressed his lips together, organising the facts of it all before letting it tumble out of his mouth in a clear monotone – like an obvious deduction. He just let the words spill, half focussing on forming the words while detecting John’s facial cues as to how he was faring with the information.

John was unreadable.

Damn.

Not even a flicker of pain. Or was it possible that hurt was his default setting so it appeared to be normal? No, it was more than that. John had the most unusual talent of burying how he truly felt deep down in his psyche and sometimes displayed nothing more beyond socially acceptable surface emotions.

He finished his tale of how he managed to fake his death so readily before adding, “You probably will be angry to know you’re not the first person I told. I told Anderson a modified version of it.”

_That_ got a reaction out of John. Unmitigated surprise.

“Why him of all people?” he asked.

Sherlock let a smirk tip his lips upwards, curving the cupids bow, modifying his tone to something amused. “Firstly, because he was the first one to believe I was still alive. I never expected him to feel remorse or belief in me. It was because of that that I felt he deserved something. Also…I told him because I knew he would never believe that I deigned to talk to him honestly. Reverse psychology. It was because I told him the truth – or something very close to it – that the secret is safe since Anderson didn’t think I was telling him the correct account of events,” the taller man explained.

“Huh, clever,” mused John, sipping his alcohol. Given the clarification of reason, he didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t the first to be told about the ‘how’ of the fall. His mind was more driven to something else. “Before you tell me about how you managed to take down Moriarty’s web, I want to know why. What was so important that you had to make everyone believe you were dead? It doesn’t make sense.”

Sherlock huffed in frustration. “You cannot be this obtuse,” he snarled, wishing that John could just stop being in such a state of denial and realise why this ‘machine’ had done what was needed. After that corny speech at his wedding, he thought that would have opened John’s eyes a bit.

“Insulting people will get you everywhere,” John said sarcastically. His voice rose when he caught Sherlock rolling his eyes. “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking, would I?” 

The detective chewed on his lower lip, forcefully reminding himself that things had been different between them before, with less things unsaid, the unsaid things there because they were both in denial.

“It was to protect the only friends I had,” he finally admitted, hanging his head. Unfortunately, his trousers weren’t a riveting object and he had to respond to the sudden tension emanating from the compact man opposite. Sherlock risked a glance up and then wished he hadn’t.

John was white as a sheet, stricken, even more so than he had upon seeing Sherlock at the Landmark. “I take back my protest. I’m obtuse,” he said brokenly, gulping around the lump in his throat.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed readily, but not unkindly. “There were assassins, snipers trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I was to kill myself or your lives would be forfeit. Three for one seemed like a fair trade. Of course, I was sure to make sure I wasn’t actually dead. I had no guarantee that the snipers would simply leave you alone and they had to be made a non-issue.”

John pressed a hand to his mouth, managing to get out, “I called you a machine. I-“

“Don’t, John,” the detective said sharply. “I engineered that response. I had to drive you away from the building to make sure Moriarty couldn’t get his hands on you.”

“You were protecting me all this time.”

“Who else would I protect? There were no others worth protecting, no other people that I couldn’t bear to lose because they had somehow gained importance,” Sherlock scoffed. “I had only recently found that I didn’t tolerate you because you were useful in that you aided dealing with the less intelligently endowed, you were not a distraction, or that you were useful because you made sure I didn’t neglect my well being – as much as I fought against it. No, it was only around the time went to Baskerville that I discovered that you were more than someone to tolerate. A friend. A confidante. A conductor of light for the luminosity of my intellect.”

As pompous as the other man was sounding, John felt a little bubble of affection rising through him, almost the same sensation from Sherlock’s best man speech at the wedding.

“Only once I ensured protection for the three of you I felt prepared to hunt down the despicable beings that had allowed Moriarty to rise to such an untouchable place,” Sherlock continued. The knot of stress was easing. John was understanding, comprehending. Knew he’d come around (89% chance) when the why was revealed. “If I hadn’t known that, I wouldn’t have left London.”

John absorbed the words (truth, wondrous, cathartic truth), setting down his glass on the coffee table and took a deep, steadying breath. “Okay. Well, thank you for saving my life.” Again.

“A pleasure.”

John didn’t doubt that it was. He searched Sherlock’s face, considering how much he would tell, and how much he would be able to listen to before the guilt and relief flooded him. “So…what happened after that? Tell me everything. Even if you think that I won’t be able to stomach any less than moral actions, tell me everything you did to ensure that we were safe. I need to know how much you went through,” he implored seriously.

Those pale eyes knew him too well. “As long as you don’t take it on. I chose to follow that path. I won’t have you beating yourself up for my actions,” Sherlock replied evenly.

“Fine.”

Sherlock talked.

Over the course of three hours he detailed everything he could, unearthing everything from the vaults of those two years. How only seventeen of the dozens of people taken down or killed were on his hands – most of the others had disappeared mysteriously due to Mycroft’s agents tasked to assist him, or he had otherwise implied and supplied information to enemies of those in Moriarty’s network where to find the specific people he wanted rid of. He told John about every injury and beating and malady that had befallen him. From the brutality of Venice to the poisoning in Shanghai (it was worse than accidentally infecting himself with a scalpel at university), and the almost rape in Bolivia – saved only by his would be attacker activating a booby trap that had shot a poison dart into his neck. He recounted the countless days of freezing cold in Nepal, the scorching heat of Egypt where his skin had been red and blistered for days. The bruises, cuts and scratches left from opponents whom he had ultimately bettered before leaving them (still breathing) to be disposed of by Mycroft’s team. The two broken fingers from a Russian casino mogul that had almost prevented him from playing the violin again if they hadn’t healed.

The Russian had been one of the ones Sherlock had taken out himself. Unapologetically. It had alleviated his conscience to know that the man was part of a sex and human trafficking ring – his ruthless action had prevented the business from continuing. (The frightened women locked in the Russian’s manor had certainly been grateful to know their tormentor was dead).

He also spoke about the snatches of kindness he had received. A Spanish whorehouse madam who had taken him in for a few days after he prevented her child from being trampled by a raging bull. A homeless teenage boy he had shared his meagre stocks of food with in Istanbul who had shown him the secret tunnels under the city which had aided him in locating Moriarty’s sector there four days ahead of schedule. The funny ragtag bunch of teenage girls in Israel who had provided him with traditional garb to conceal his identity. An elderly gentleman in Estonia who had regaled him with war stories, whittled wood and had provided him with a machete in exchange for Sherlock chopping down a few trees for firewood.

He was in turns animated and grave depending on what he discussed. From the dangerous thrill of a lead and the ultimate capture of Moriarty’s associates tempered with the astonishing places he visited and of the experiences he had. He even jokingly admitted that if it weren’t for the fact that he was trying to dismantle such an immense operation, it would have felt vaguely like a holiday.

John had listened raptly, switching from horror to astonishment to relief and then back again.

“I finally finished in Serbia, thinking I had finally destroyed the last piece of the web. I was trapped there for a long while. Mycroft himself came to fetch me. I was brought back to London, recuperated for a day and then went to find you,” Sherlock finished, his voice husky from talking for so long without interruption. “Which didn’t go quite well,” he added ruefully.

“No. So…you were injured when I-“ John began, but like before, Sherlock cut him off once more.

“Yes. They had whipped my back, cut my skin. I was close to having my ankle sprained. But you couldn’t have known, and I was a rather nasty surprise for you,” the detective justified when he saw John’s face crumple.

“Did I make it worse?” he asked.

Sherlock shut his eyes. Brave, noble John, wanting to heal the hurts even when his own psyche was littered with wounds. “Not much. I ached, but none of the stitches opened,” he replied.

“Christ,” muttered John. He was shuddering every so often, the information overload taking its toll. “You had just been on a two year action spree. You could have hurt me easily in return.”

“Notable observation. It was only the force of my logical mind reminding me that you were my friend and didn’t intend permanent harm and that my appearance was a shock prevented the instincts I had trained to fight reacting to your aggression,” Sherlock said. He searched for the right phrase that would avert John’s persistent sense of guilt so they could get on with it. “I was glad you punched me, in hindsight.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, what is that, a pain thing?” John bit out sarcastically, unbelieving.

“It showed that you were not indifferent,” Sherlock went on calmly. “They say that the opposite of care is not hate, but indifference. I would rather you have been angry and hated me than ignore me and shrug as if to say ‘that’s that.’”

John sighed. “Fine. You want to just sweep that under the rug?”

“Of course! It doesn’t matter!” cried Sherlock, pounding a hand against the sofa cushions like a five year old. “These were the actions of the past. We can regret them, yes, but what’s the point right now, in this moment? I gave you your explanation. Are you satisfied?”

The demand rang out between them, Sherlock turning a bit manic with the desperation to talk about something else. The memories unlocked from their cages had been largely unpleasant and their imprints lingered in his mind.

John’s face showed the answer before he said the words. “Yeah. I understand it all now. Why you had to be a ghost. I do. I just…” his gaze flickered everywhere, as if some random object could give him the inspiration.

“If it makes you feel any better, I regret not contacting you earlier.” Glimpsing John’s cynicism, he muttered, “I really did. Do you know how many times I would stop and turn and say something, and realise you weren’t there? Countless. Countless times I wanted to take up and see you, working out the puzzles together because it was what we did. A new habit learned, and completely appreciated. Teamwork.” He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling and catalogued the patterns the firelight left on the ceiling in conjunction with the lamps. Different from Baker Street. Talking about issues like these were simply exhausting. He wondered how psychologists were able to keep such a clear frame of mind in their professions.

John shifted, leaning closer. “It does make me feel better,” he confessed.

Sherlock closed his eyes, content to listen to the warmth in John’s tone. Beautiful. “Good. That’s what I wanted to achieve.”

“Git,” the shorter man murmured, standing up and stretching, wincing at how sore he was and how some joints seemed to pop. “You know you can never do that to me again.”

Sherlock felt a pulse of guilt, scorching and filthy, at the thought he _had_ almost done it again. The exile had been certain to finish him.

Preventing it had been the only good thing Moriarty had done from him (aside from providing fascinating cases, but that wasn’t exactly a definition of good).

“I know. As much as it is in my power, I won’t,” Sherlock promised, opening his eyes to meet John’s directly above him. He stifled a gasp, not realising his friend was leaning against the sofa arm. Close. Close enough to smell the muted aftershave and deodorant. Too much to catalogue, not the right place or time. “But if I do,” he continued, softer, “I will let you know every step of the way.”

John smiled, evidently very satisfied by the answer.

Sherlock’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. All these emotions, all these feelings had trickled into his state of being without his control. If only they didn’t turn him upside-down with their power. He tentatively smiled back.

“Thanks. I know that was very hard,” John said.

“Harder than a nine type case,” Sherlock deadpanned, making John smile wider.

“God knows what it’s going to do to me when it’s my turn.”

The taller man stretched, standing – suddenly feeling very fatigued. “I think you might self-combust.”

“Berk,” muttered John.

“How original.”

“Shut up. Good night.”

“You too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone notice how I set up Sherlock's lab/art room? Specifically, the sides of the room? The left side of the human brain is meant to be analytical. The right is meant to be the more creative processes. ;) There's some trivia for you.


	6. Questions in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this hasn't been updated for awhile. I've been terribly busy with a new job/fanfic challenges/dickhead family. Life. I hope a nice long chapter makes up for it. While this chapter format is similar to chapter 4/5, things start to change in the next chapter. Still not beta'd or Brit-picked. 
> 
> Warnings: Nightmare sequence does have violence. And swearing.

A week after the Reichenbach conversation, the pair were enjoying the more sedate life the cottage offered them. While Sherlock continued to give John a great deal of personal space, they began to act like they had used to before the Fall, the patterns of their behaviour never completely fading. In that week, John had filled up the journal. By the time he had placed the last full stop at the bottom of the page, the widower could finally say that he could look at the mental picture of Mary and Eleanor in his mind and not be inundated with all the connotations the image carried.

He could think of her and not (often) feel the urge to kick something or stare at the ceiling and question ‘why?’

Writing had not been John’s sole pursuit in that time. He had mustered up enough curiosity one day to watch Sherlock tend to the hives, ending up helping with keeping them frost-free in the mornings once Sherlock deemed his efforts competent. On a particularly sunny day, they had taken a long walk in the surrounding hills, fields and cliffs. Not speaking – because there was no need for it. Sherlock wanted to gather some samples from the environment to store in his lab and had invited his friend to join him. It had been refreshing.

Another thing John had learned in that week was that Sherlock’s hidden creative side had inexplicably chosen to sprout. At one point in his journaling when he felt that the detective was being too quiet, John had ventured upstairs and took a peek into the lab-cum-art room. He had smiled at the sight of his friend sketching a realistic drawing of a praying mantis – the specimen he was studying in a sealed jar on the bench before him. Scattered over the art bench were other sketches of insects, although only one had been coloured and labelled in any great detail, that being the queen bee of one of the hives. John had chosen not to disturb him, discreetly taken a photo on his phone and went back to his angst ridden thoughts.

John had also met the famous Greta – a tiny wizened woman who smelled constantly of sage and had the deep brown eyes of someone who knew too much. She was surprisingly strong for what her age and appearance indicated, full of black humour which never failed to entertain both him and Sherlock, and made the most deliciously sinful chocolate tart. Even Sherlock had ended up loosening his belt after gleefully demolishing three portions of it.

What had amazed the doctor was that Sherlock wasn’t bored, wasn’t complaining, or otherwise.

It made John feel like they were on an even keel – both requiring the rest, the complete change of pace, and the honesty.

Not that the honesty had really been required since the big talk the week before. By unspoken agreement, they were both waiting for a signal that it was time to address something else on their psyche. John suspected he would have to initiate. They were both ferociously protective of the delicate parts of their inner selves, all there was to do was to muster to courage to begin conversation.

John thought that he was ready to address some issues with Sherlock. He just needed the right timing.

Unfortunately, he was unable to decide that for himself.

* * *

_Gunshot._

_After gunshot._

_After gunshot._

_Screaming._

_Blackness, blindness, the cloying fog breathed in, tasting like carbon monoxide. Opened eyes, dark blue, wide with shock._

_Sherlock, handcuffs trailing from one wrist, rope coiled around the other, shirtless, blood rippling down his skin. Bullet holes marring porcelain. Gun in his hand, aimed at the shadows._

_John shouted soundlessly in a bubble, dressed in his camo army gear, hands reaching out desperately to the tall man before him. Sherlock must have heard him, for he turned, his face all bloodied and bruised. “I told you John. I made a vow. I swore I would never break it.”_

_No. No. Nonononononono, the bloody idiot wasn’t putting his life in danger, his livelihood, his everything in danger yet again. Surely the cup had run over with misfortune for the both of them._

_Apparently not, not as the shadows formed into the ghostly figure of Charles Magnussen, his head off kilter and grinning wickedly. Sherlock shot him down, his figure dissipating into smoke which reformed into Mary. She smiled, so sweet and innocently as the bullets that had killed her opened up her skin. Sherlock, again, defending them both even as he became weaker and weaker with blood loss. Mary dissipated and reformed into Moriarty._

_The clever dark eyes were menacing in their liveliness, his body suddenly growing larger and larger until he was a giant towering over Sherlock and John._

_“Well darling, looks like we’re both fantastic in faking it,” Moriarty crooned, almost lovingly. “And it seems that you’ve discovered something I knew all along.”_

_“Shut up you fucking son of a bitch!” John cursed, valiantly struggling against the clear prison._

_Moriarty merely bent down and flicked the bubble, sending him careening away. “You’re just an obstacle and a tool to be eliminated.” John could only watch in horror as Sherlock was picked up in giant hands – he struggled, reaching back for John, desperately trying to escape. “Uh-ah!” admonished the giant Moriarty, pinning the detective against the wall. “You have escaped the fate I set for you. It’s time for you to finally meet it.”_

_The hand began to squeeze the body in his hands, acting like a boa constrictor and slowly squeezing his victim. John screamed._

* * *

“SHERLOCK!”

John tumbled out of bed, reaching for his gun, bruising his arm as it thumped against the bedside table. He was panting heavily. Pulse racing, limbs twitching in panic. He didn’t think, barely holding onto sense as he rushed out of his bedroom and into Sherlock’s. It was only when he saw the pallid body resting in his bed, lit by weak moonlight from the window, that he felt like he could breathe normally, take his finger off the safety switch of the Browning and sag against the wall next to the door.

Deja vu of their first night. It was just another bloody nightmare, the most graphic one since the Mary dream.

He rubbed at his eyes tiredly, wondering how he hadn’t stirred Sherlock awake with his yelling – he knew for sure that he was yelling – when he noticed that long, slender body twitch under the thick coverings.

The memory of the nightmare receded as concern became prominent. In his initial panic, he hadn’t noticed Sherlock struggling in his sleep.

John watched him, a hollow sinking in his stomach as he noted indicators of a nightmare.

Deep, laboured breathing, sweat gathering at his temples and soaking the dark waves there, the restless shifting of his body and the twitching of his hands. His brows were pushed downward in a severe frown and he was biting his lower lip. John hesitated for but a moment in wondering if it was prudent to wake him, before carefully moving to the bedside table and flicking on the lamp.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock stilled, then seemed to fight harder, upper lip curling upwards in a soundless snarl, shoulders trembling.

John knew there was no other way for it. He rested his palm over Sherlock’s t-shirt clad shoulder, calling out, “Sherlock. Wake up. Now.”

The order broke through to Sherlock’s mind and his eyes snapped open, freezing in place as he took in where he was. John looked on worriedly as Sherlock didn’t even blink for a good half a minute, before a long, shuddering sigh emerged from his lips. His frozen expression of fright eased as he sat up, forcing himself to breathe.

“John,” he murmured.

“Looks like the night of bad dreams,” deadpanned the doctor, slipping his hand down over Sherlock’s arm to take his pulse at the wrist. Approximately the same thrumming speed as his own had been only a few minutes earlier. He was vaguely amused at how his own discomfort was pushed aside in order to aid the pale man beside him. He looked up, knowing Sherlock had been studying him with his usual intensity.

“Your dream was about me,” Sherlock deduced.

“Yes.”

“Ah. Did you come in here to check if I was alive?”

“Something like that,” John murmured, absentmindedly tracing his thumb over Sherlock’s wrist, mentally checking off the signs of life all over Sherlock’s body. He was never so glad to hear him breathing, to see the intelligent gleam in his changeable eyes, feel the pulse of blood through the skin and coursing through his veins. He set his shoulders rigidly to prevent a shudder running through him – the flashes of true memories interlaying over his dream. Sherlock shot in Magnussen’s office, his crimson streaked face after the fall…

“You destroyed me when you fell off Barts,” John blurted. From Sherlock’s rapid blinking, he surmised he had surprised the man with his topic.

“You want to talk about this now?” Sherlock asked uncertainly.

John shrugged, uncomfortable. “It might be better in the dark. Might feel less like reality. We can’t see each other’s faces really well, so it’ll be harder to tell what we’re both thinking. We’ll actually have to, you know, say it.”

Sherlock’s lips pursed and then he shifted, wiggling along until he was on the opposite side of the bed. “We might as well be comfortable if you intend to converse about this,” he said.

John’s arched an eyebrow and asked, “You want me to get in your bed?”

“Yes. Problem?”

The shorter man chose not to answer. Yes, there were problems with being in such close contact with Sherlock, _intimate_ close contact with Sherlock. Mainly because at one point in the past, it had been something he had wanted. Buried under a pyramid of denial of course. Then again, he and Sherlock had mentioned something about providing comfort to each other just the other day – he hadn’t been expecting to be put to the test this soon. He made the decision and flicked off the lamp. Obligingly, he slid up onto the mattress but on top of the covers. He was cold, but he ignored it as he lay back against the headboard. From the rustle of sheets, Sherlock had settled down again, staring up at the ceiling.

“You said I destroyed you,” Sherlock said remorsefully. “I am sor-“

“I know,” John interrupted gently. He closed his eyes. This was going to be even more difficult. “I know you’re sorry. I’m not going to say it’s okay, because it wasn’t, to leave me like that. But it is better.”

When no further comment came from Sherlock, John took it as his cue to carry on the conversation. “I didn’t put the pieces together until I told you that you were my best friend – the blank shock, the silence. You didn’t realise how much you would hurt me by dying. You thought I would be sad, but you didn’t think it’d be that dramatic, did you?” he mused.

“No,” Sherlock confirmed softly. “Not until the night I came back.”

“I’m going to get to that. I’ve got to get this off my chest though. I know at the time of your faked death that we had barely known each other for two years. But you were my flatmate, my best friend, and you were, and are, important to me. You said that I saved you. Surely, you have to realise you did the same for me as well. As mad and crazy as our life was, I wanted every second. The picking fights with you about your experiments, being annoyed at you, the various body parts in odd places, because in the end we were fine. We had a balance. Hell, Sherlock, you cured my fucking psychosomatic limp within a day of meeting you, you _had_ to have seen that any suicidal thoughts I had lessened day after day spent chasing you around London and helping out with cases,” John rambled. He was right, speaking into the darkness placed less pressure on him, making it easier to confess.

“I was partly aware of your PTSD and the hopelessness you felt towards the seeming bleakness of life that stretched when you were invalided to London. I suspected you were suicidal but it was one of my rare fits of tactfulness that I thought it better not to directly confront it. I merely attempted to keep your mind too busy,” Sherlock replied, shifting on his side so he could glean whatever information from the other man’s silhouette.

John chuckled. “Yeah, my mind was definitely full after meeting you. Life was worth living again, that was for sure. I was trying to tell you on the bloody guardsman case, but you walked away before I could say it. You turned my life around,” he said.

“Thank you,” murmured Sherlock.

“But when you died. God,” John’s breath hitched and it felt like someone was pressing down hard on his sternum. “It was worse than when my mum died. I just wanted to rewind it and have enough time to stop you. I wanted to beg for the chance to help you out. I wanted to just curl up in a dark hole somewhere and be numb. To know you weren’t going to burst into my room at stupid times of the night to go out on a case, to not argue over whether to watch a Bond film or Doctor Who, to not hear you play the violin, to know that you _weren’t there_ , hell, it almost put me back to the stage I was at after Afghanistan.”

He heard a sharply indrawn breath from the man beside him. He wanted truth. Here it was. Every painful bit.

“I stayed at the flat for a couple of months, just to sort out your affairs. It was torture. Seeing those stupid hair products of yours next to the pain medication every time I went for one for a headache, all your books, seeing your writing on whatever piece of paper you deemed worthy for your notes just reminded me that you were gone and you weren’t coming back. I barely slept, and when I did, it was usually for sixteen hours at a time. I lost my original job, hardly left the flat, didn’t want to see anyone, not even Mrs. Hudson. I tried to get rid of some of your stuff, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt wrong somehow. I had to move out, for my own sanity. Once I did, I could finally grieve for you properly.” He paused to take a breath, craning his head down to see if Sherlock was still listening. He was anchored by the familiar alien-like features, his mouth softened by unexpected sympathy.

“It took a long time for me to come to grips with your death. A year after and it was only then that I realised I was living a somewhat normal life. Yeah, a bit dull, but it wasn’t like I could replace you. And I didn’t want to,” he finished.

“If I had known-“ Sherlock clenched his jaw. “No, we can’t bring up these regrets again.”

“No,” agreed John. “We both struggled during that time.”

“It shouldn’t have been necessary,” the taller man murmured, pushing himself upright and sitting cross-legged. “It made my return all the worse I bet.”

John barked out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, the miraculous return from the dead. You know, now that I’m less annoyed about it all, it was very smooth, getting into the restaurant and posing like a waiter. To think that I was speaking to a ghost before he revealed himself.”

Sherlock winced. “I thought it may amuse you. That my return was something we could look back and laugh about eventually,” he said.

The doctor smirked. “Eventually. There’s still hope for that.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’ve felt that conflicted in my life before, actually. Rage, grief, relief, gladness, astonishment. It was all there. Anger won out in the end. Although if I hadn’t been that upset I think I might have fainted.”

The both snickered at the mental image that popped up in their heads.

“It was funny though, how easily I accepted you were alive. I didn’t feel the need to double check. I just…knew. I was too pissed off as well. At the audacity with the moustache. Like you never left,” John said.

“It was like a mouse had decided to crash land on your upper lip,” Sherlock broke in disdainfully.

“I gathered how much you hated it, don’t worry,” John replied.

“Mary did too.”

The reminder stung.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, trying to backtrack.

“No, it’s fine. I might as well get that out of the way tonight, while we’re here,” John assured. “I think I’m at peace with her death at this point. It’ll probably come up sometime in the future. I’ll probably still have fits of anger or sadness or something. But right now, I can accept that she’s gone. I can accept how betrayed I feel and that I’ll never be able to resolve anything. And I think part of me is glad I didn’t have to try.”

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking. I thought she was what you wanted,” Sherlock asked, sounding confused.

“I wanted who she was before…the shooting. That’s who I fell in love with. Then, like a bloody magician trick, my wife was someone I barely knew. Surprise, I got the wrong end of the Christmas cracker. The part that exploded in my face,” he said darkly. “She was meant to be a nice, normal, safe person who occasionally indulged me my need for thrills. My safe place in the world. But no, I picked a manipulative liar who was selfish enough to think if she got rid of enough people that she could keep me. Like a prize possession. A trophy husband. Because I saw it when I met her.”

“Stop,” Sherlock ordered, startling him. “What she said at the flat that night, she was wrong. You couldn’t have unconsciously selected her because she was secretly dangerous. It does not absolve her from the responsibility of being honest. I was wrong to say that you chose her. You chose her based on your perceptions at the time, when you didn’t have the full data set, didn’t have the full parameters of who ‘Mary’ was.”

“Everything’s always my fault,” John echoed bitterly.

He jolted in place when a long-fingered hand closed around his wrist. “No. Not in trusting Mary. Even _I_ didn’t see her true colours. You thought your heart was safe with her and _she_ chose to betray that. There is nothing wrong with you. Do you hear me, John Watson? There is nothing wrong with you, you don’t make the people around you psychopaths. You are not a common factor in sociopathic tendencies,” Sherlock said earnestly, gently tightening his fingers around John’s wrist. “You make the people around you better. She was wrong to do what she did. To deceive you. To be unwilling to sacrifice her own wants in order to keep you happy. I thought she could do that for you. And I am admitting it freely, John, I have never been so wrong in my life.”

John slumped. He didn’t realise how badly he had needed those words said to him. By anyone. He felt light-headed with the rush of gratitude for the other man, for intuitively confirming verbally what he had wanted to desperately to believe about himself. “You don’t think it’s wrong for me to be over Mary so quickly?” he asked, seeking to clarify this.

Sherlock scoffed and responded, “No. While it’s not socially acceptable to be glad for death – and no idea why, sometimes death is the answer – I think you are relieved because you knew you wouldn't be able to trust her again. You wouldn’t ever be able to relax, leave your back turned around her, because of the sheer unpredictability of her actions. No matter how hard you would have tried to repair the shattered bonds for the sake of your child and for your honour as a man who married a woman, it would feel like a sham. Putting on a mask everyday and know that things weren’t in alignment underneath.”

John mulled over this for a while, slowly pulling his wrist out of Sherlock’s grip. “I’m still not used to this,” he said.

“What? Specifics please,” Sherlock demanded.

“You. You changed, Sherlock. Since you’ve come back. You’ve been more considerate than usual, you’re not all that interested in the cases, in the games unless something truly interesting comes up, and you have been a little distracted when it comes to the crimes. Don’t get me wrong, you’re brilliant still, just…muted a little,” he added when he saw his friend glare. “Honestly Sherlock, you’ve kind of driven me nuts. You’re still you, just all these new facets of you are coming out and I’m struggling to sort of assimilate it with what I know about you.”

“Would you prefer I go back to the completely selfish arrogant prick I used to be before I met you?” Sherlock asked dryly.

“No! I just mean…well…it’s different. And you don’t do things unless there’s a reason, there’s no coincidences with you.” When Sherlock stayed silent, he pondered the detective’s unusual behaviour, recalled all the gestures that Sherlock had made since his return – especially for him. Everything raced across his memory in brief technicolour flashes: Sherlock, not pushing him to join him on his cases after being soundly rejected at the kebab shop, Sherlock throwing himself into the fire to pull him out of danger, helping organise his wedding, throwing a stag night even though he hadn’t wanted to, creating such a fantastic, sentimental and interesting best man speech…Sherlock hadn’t gotten in contact with him after the wedding because he had wanted he and Mary to have some time for themselves. Sherlock had revealed Mary’s true nature to him, had killed Magnussen just because he had threatened to interfere with the person John loved, had brought Mary’s killer to justice and brought him here to recuperate after the theoretical cyclone had ripped through his life.

“Oh…my god,” John whispered, the epiphany striking as swift and blinding as a lightning bolt. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“John?” queried Sherlock cautiously.

“You…you haven’t been selfish at all. That’s why I can’t, I’m not used to it. I’ve only got what I know from before and it’s not matching up and it’s because of that consideration, why?”

Sherlock’s expression was unreadable in the dim lighting and his head was tilted slightly away. “I’m sure you have deduced it.”

“I need you to tell me again,” the doctor said emphatically.

The curly-haired head swung towards John again, something exposed in his blue-grey eyes. With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock said, “I have tried to be conscientious for your sake. Your anger at my return was so completely unexpected I…I believed you’d never ever forgive. So I have been trying to make amends ever since, trying to prove myself worthy to be in your life. I have done everything I could to make you, if not happy, then content. Because it was what you gave to me and what I discovered after a decade of being alone and believing that I wasn’t destined for anything but loneliness.”

John couldn’t help himself. He reached out and embraced Sherlock, tugging him forward with a grunt. “Can you forgive an unobservant sod like me for not realising how much you’ve really done until now?” he asked quietly, unable to stop feeling so thankful for the man in his arms. It shouldn’t feel like this, but it did. To know that Sherlock had grown emotionally, had admitted such a sentimental thing, was no small feat.

“I have never given you reason before to see my actions in that light. Of course I can,” replied Sherlock, carefully – in the same fashion as their first night in _Apibus_ – wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders in return. “I don’t do it for you to realise or to be thanked. I do it for you because you are important.”

As John settled into their embrace, Sherlock found his pulse spiked. He hadn’t dared to ask for a hug – he quite enjoyed them actually, much to his own surprise – so to receive one made his admissions worthwhile. John was worthwhile. If he had to tell John every day that he was sorry, and that all the events that had happened weren’t his fault so he could stop blaming himself for others shortcomings, then he would. He would stay up all night chatting – the much loathed chatting about feelings – because it was evident it was helping and healing them both.

If his friend happened to figure out the core of why John was the exception to everything Sherlock had ever done, then he could bear it. There was nothing left to lose personally, he had been stripped bare, faked his death, almost died. Whenever it came the time for everything about his being to be unravelled into John’s ready hands, he would take whatever course of action John would set.


	7. A Step Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or Brit-picked again, sorry. Looks like the updates will be monthly now (at the latest!), as I am back at university and my course load has gotten very big. As you have noticed, this fic is full of ups and downs and I've written it to be that way. There's another few downs before things begin to look up again. So you are warned ;)
> 
> Warnings: Mention of naked bodies, mention of past violence and a semi-OOC Sherlock.

“What is _that_?”

Sherlock spun around as John entered the kitchen, incredulously taking in his outfit. “It’s a wetsuit John. One usually clothes themself in this garment for the purpose of swimming,” he said.

John stopped before him, crossing his arms – his self control tested by curiosity, as the wetsuit was indecently tight all over – and giving Sherlock his patented ‘what the hell’ expression. “It’s in the middle of February. If you’re going to go jump in the ocean, you’ll be coming out blue with how icy you’ll be,” he pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s midday. The water shouldn’t be overly cold and it has been warmer the past few days, higher than the average degrees centigrade. Winter swimming is certainly not a new phenomenon. I believe it has been referred to as refreshing by those who live in the northern European countries. Although it may be worthwhile to experiment with going from a sauna to an extremely cold body of water just to study the effects in myself,” he pondered aloud. He bent down and slipped some water shoes onto his feet and said, “Don’t feel obliged to follow me in, but if you are of an inquiring mind in this endeavour, I have a spare wetsuit. May be a bit large, but it is serviceable.”

As the taller man rose to full height again, John considered it. It was nuts. Completely and utterly nonsensical.

But intriguing.

By Sherlock’s smug grin he knew his answer before he even said it. “Yeah, okay, I’ll come down. But no guarantees of me going into the water,” John replied.

“What if I picked you up and threw you in?” Sherlock asked with a touch of mischievousness.

John stared back challengingly. “I’d like to see you try.”

Sherlock grinned, before darting upstairs to grab the spare wetsuit from his closet. Upon his return, he assured John that the wetsuits were designed to keep as much body heat trapped within the suit as possible and make it possible to contemplate the cool temperatures. John quickly changed – partly glad that the suit was baggier on him than Sherlock’s was – gathered some towels, leaving the cottage. It didn’t take long as they trekked over the grassy fields in front of _Apibus_ and picked their way down the short rickety wooden steps to the beach. They arrived in a small cove between two outcroppings of rock. The sun high in the sky glinted off the water, the crests of the rippling water shining silver like starlight. If it hadn’t been for the cooler temperatures, it would have a perfect day to enjoy the seaside. They had barely placed their belongings down on the sand when Sherlock loped over the sand and into the water.

“The water’s wonderful John!” Sherlock called back when he was thigh deep in the swell. He twisted around, grinning at his companion who was worriedly watching from the shore. He felt the cast of his troubles melt away with each splash of frosty seawater against his lithe frame. It was cool, no doubt, and it would have been uncomfortably so if not for the thermal wetsuits, and it elicited sudden thrills from Sherlock. It was exhilarating to be immersed in the elements, to be swamped in the indelible power of the ocean. He may not understand nature completely, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate it. He closed his eyes, tipping his head upwards and spreading his arms.

Oh how he had missed this. It was rare he swam but it was oddly liberating each time.

Sherlock let his body fall back in a graceful arc, his flesh covered by goose pimples as he was immersed in the water.

As most of his mind-palace reshuffle had been completed by now, the rush of sensations pressed in on him without reserve, the deductions swirling thick and fast like a wave. Salty, ambient temperature had dragged the sea temperature up a bit. If he balanced like so, he would be able to float without problem. His face broke the surface and he sucked in a deep breath of the bracing sea air.

His mind seemed to float with him, all the extraneous thoughts packaged up tightly and flitting away to leave him with nothing but pure elation at the magnificent gentle flow of the tide.

“You alright?” he heard John ask, followed by a soft splashing.

Sherlock cracked an eyelid open slightly to observe John, standing ankle deep in the water, muted concern and excitement flashing in his features in turn. Ah, it was obvious he was debating with himself as to whether he should join Sherlock. He wished the doctor would join him. Surely he could feel the same sensations he was at this moment, just to let all thoughts quiet. And it would be nice, for once, to swim with a friend. He hadn’t swum with anyone bar his family in his life.

He smirked as John made up his mind and walked in deeper, the sound of water splashing and rippling around his legs indicating how close he was coming.

“Ah, bugger. It’s fucking cold,” John cursed as he drew up near Sherlock’s floating body cutting gracefully through the water.

“You should have run in like I did. Would have increased your heart rate slightly and your adrenalin levels to keep you warm and made it easier to assimilate to the temperatures. Submerge yourself,” Sherlock suggested. When John merely gave him a dark look, he threatened teasingly, “Or I will attempt to immerse you. You did, after all, challenge me to.”

“You cannot make me get in this water Sherlock Holmes,” John stated proudly, widening his stance and tilting his head defiantly.

“True,” conceded Sherlock. John’s defiance melted into confusion just as Sherlock continued, “Close your eyes. What’s that insipid saying? If you can’t bring the horse to water, bring the water to the horse?”

“Wrong saying. But-“ John replied, the realisation hitting him just as Sherlock grinned toothily, rising up out of the water and pushing his arms forwards to soak the shorter man with a burst of chilly salt water. John stumbled back, spluttering in shock with his mouth full of seawater. Sherlock released a full-bellied laugh at the sheer bewilderment on John’s face. He found the expression to be adorably hilarious.

“Bloody git!” John swore, eyes narrowed to slits in a glare as his mad friend continued to grin. His heart stopped for a moment as he glimpsed the blinding joy in that smile. His competitive nature rose to the fore and he calculatingly measured the distance between he and Sherlock. “I’m going to get you back you berk,” he threw back at Sherlock.

“I wouldn’t expect less, soldier,” the other man exclaimed deviously, hitting the water with an open palm and sending glittering spray everywhere.

Two could play at that game, as juvenile as it was.

John let himself drop back to the water, kicking his legs along the surface and sending great arcs of seawater into the air. He smirked as he heard a startled yelp from beyond the splashing – he had hit his target with astounding ease.

“The game is on!” Sherlock called with the same relish he had for interesting cases and intense rounds of Cluedo. He sidestepped the fountain of salty spray and skimmed his arm in a semi-circle over the surface towards John. He windmilled his arms as John heaved water back at him and found himself chuckling even as he was continually drenched.

This was fun!

Why had he never done anything like this before?

Oh. Right. It was meant to be beneath him – like friendship and compassion and anything but cleverness.

Sherlock’s mind only half concentrated on retaliation as he sunk into a brief contemplation. Mycroft had never done this with him. It had been merely competitive swimming with his brother.  He had never dared to play with other children and thus had never experienced puerile games like this. What a changed man he was, to momentarily free the shackles of his restraint and do what he should have done as a child.

The stinging slap of icy fluid brought him out of his ruminations, so he ducked underwater and kicked backwards and to the side. If he timed this right, then he would be able to surprise John.

He waited for a few seconds before pushing off the sandy floor of the ocean and leaping out of the sea, bringing his arms up to send a mighty wave right over John’s back and head. The garbled shout of shock made Sherlock laugh again, the higher pitched giggle of John’s chorusing with him moments later.

“Got me,” John said. He shook his head, splattering droplets of water everywhere. It reminded Sherlock of those shaggy sheepdogs.

“Have I bested you doctor?” Sherlock purred in triumph, picking up on the cues that John intended on surrendering.

“At a water fight? In your dreams,” John pronounced with a wicked gleam in his eyes, catching Sherlock by surprise with his renewed energy. He pounced, tackling the taller man around the chest as they collapsed through the silvery surface of the water. Sherlock was underwater, delighted by the way John had deceived him. He should have been frightened by the abrupt changeability, instead he was elated by the way John continued to prove he was never dull or boring and had managed to fake his body cues to fool him.

They came up again, chuckling even as they attempted to blink their eyes free of sand crystals.

“Admit defeat and I may let you escape without another dunking,” John teased.

Sherlock raised his hands in surrender.

Unbidden, the image of Sherlock raising his hands to display that he wasn’t about to harm anyone else that night at Magnussen’s residence overlaid the currently playful Sherlock. His smile dropped and instantly their countenances shifted from mirth to something more sombre.

“Sorry. I was just thinking of the night you shot…” John apologised. He snorted, the bitter laugh he had been wanting to eject unable to form.  “That night, the video of you yanking me out of that fire. First time in a while it hit me like a blow to the kidneys just how much you cared. Then to see that desperation come out of you, something I never wanted to see, enough that you felt you had to end him.”

Sherlock noted the position of his hands and instantly dropped them. “He did not deserve the right to breathe if he was using the eccentricities and pressure points of others against them. I would do it again if it meant keeping you, Mary, and Mycroft safe from his machinations,” he said.

John sucked in a breath. Yes, he knew that. To hear Sherlock say it himself was another matter. “He wasn’t a very nice man, was he,” he muttered.

To his puzzlement, Sherlock’s lips twitched in a smile. “You said that the night you shot the cabbie. The first case we did together.”

John found his spirits lifting again. How ironic, for their friendship to circle around to where they began. He had taken a life to prevent the detective sacrificing his life, and Sherlock had taken many in order to protect him. “I am grateful you did it. I shouldn’t be, but I think taking him out was for the greater good. Wasn’t the entirety of the British government under his thumb?” he said.

“They were,” confirmed Sherlock. “Didn’t prevent them from shipping me off on a dangerous mission for penance.”

The shorter man scrunched his mouth up in thought. “Too many witnesses for you to get off the hook, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway. I’m going to go dry off. Going to stay out here a bit more to become one with the fish?” John asked, canting his head to the side as he ruffled his hair to aid the drying process. He didn’t notice Sherlock’s sea foam gaze tracing lines over his body and missed the fractured longing passing over the pallid face.

“I won’t be long. Just another fifteen minutes and we can return to the cottage,” the dark haired man replied, stepping back and letting the water hold him up once more. He absentmindedly paid attention to the more upbeat sloshes of John’s stride as he exited the dragging fluid sliding over the wetsuit. The playfulness had ebbed and he found himself giving his thoughts freely to the arms of the ocean as the small, lapping waves carried him further out. His hands drifted and paddled, acting like a rudder to the boat that was his body.

Sherlock was emboldened by John’s willingness to engage him in youthful play fighting, including not giving in and pinning him down in the water. It was indicative of how their time here in Sussex would continue to progress. John was willing to fight, soldiering on once more. John was willing to push against him, to attack and defend as needed and in a much healthier fashion he had been carrying on about recently.

His spirits had picked up since their last late night talk. An auspicious sign.

The genius’s thoughts veered sharply off course when he noted through his eyelids a shade being drawn over the world. As he blinked them open, he scowled at the encroaching cloud cover above him. The one day of perfect weather they had (well, good enough) and now the blasted rain couldn’t hold off another quarter of an hour until he was done.

With a deep-seated annoyance, Sherlock swam back towards the shore until his feet hit the sandy bank. The first droplets of rain sprinkled over the cove just as he had left the last vestiges of the sea. His expression must have been disgusted by this turn of conditions, for John favoured him with sympathetic eyes, holding out his towels carefully.

“Stupid barometric pressure change,” grumbled Sherlock, rubbing the first towel roughly against his hair, the curl returning to them with each pass of soft blue cotton.

“One of the many things we can’t control, unfortunately,” John replied with a wry smile.

The pair rapidly brushed themselves free of sand and clambered back up to the grassy fields. As displeased as Sherlock was about the climate, he was soothed by the companionable silence and the reconnection established between them. With every step they took, their shoulders brushed, unspoken camaraderie , if not fully restored, certainly on the way there. Finally, something that had fallen into place without him using his intellect to manipulate it into being.

Upon reaching the cottage, the rain had begun to pour down, rendering the efforts of their towels useless. They were sopping wet once more, their wetsuits sticking resolutely to their skin.

“At least it got most of the sand and salt off,” John pointed out as Sherlock groused about being made to drip everywhere on the way to the shower.

Sherlock chose not to reply. He was feeling rather put out by the kink in his plans. He flung his soaked towel over the white railings and trooped inside, feeling uncharitable enough to take the first shower for himself. By John’s somewhat at ease posture, he wouldn’t mind being left to wait.

Besides, as pleasant as swimming was, his skin was sensitive, and his mind was running at full speed, niggling Sherlock at each tiny move of sea salt and sand rasping along his skin and wedged in his body’s crevices. It was especially excruciating in between his toes, which were inconveniently susceptible. He sniffed the air and noted how he smelt as if he had been dumped in a brining tank, wrinkling his nose.

Reaching the bathroom, Sherlock twisted the taps so the water was hot and streaming in a steady flow. He yanked off the wetsuit, dumping it in the wash basket and gratefully sliding underneath the warm spray.

He couldn’t prevent the low moan escaping his mouth.

It may not have been the same temperature conditions of going from freezing pool to sauna that he would have liked to experiment on, but it felt close enough that Sherlock slid down to rest on the in-built tiled bench as the water poured slickly over his shoulders and down his chest. He winced as it ran over the scar tissue of his bullet wound but remained still, letting the little twinges of sensation wash over his racing thoughts.

He reached for the shampoo, quickly washing his hair before filling his hands with body wash and smoothing it all over his skin. He stroked over his pale skin in long, soothing sweeps, tapered fingers gracing the skin at his neck, abdominals and groin. He ignored the faint stirrings of arousal, the previously limp flesh taking some interest in touch. It wasn’t proper. Not now – because he knew he would end up thinking about John and make his problem more difficult to deal with. At any other time he would have dealt with his arousal perfunctorily as a means to rid his mind of distracting sensations before they percolated.

Now the cores of his emotions were intimately twined through his mind palace – even if they weren’t overt, they were like tiny wires, feeding through each passage.

To pleasure himself now would be like experiencing a rickety Hackney hotel – dirty and cheap.  It would be all too easy to call up the right images, memories of scant touch and so on. Yet he hesitated. He wasn’t sure of John’s emotional stability. While it had made vast improvement, there was still a great deal of ground to cover before Sherlock could even _think_ of suggesting they transition their friendship into something else.

That is, if John didn’t figure it out and chart their course from there by his reactions.

He paused in his motions, the great brain ticking over as soap suds trailed over the long line of his limbs.

No. That was dangerous territory.

Sherlock hopped out of the shower after that. Another two minutes longer and John would have predictably come up to ensure he was okay. Which he was.

He darted, half-nude with only the towel preserving his modesty, into his room – immediately observing the scrap of paper left on his bedspread. John must have taken care to be quiet and leave him undisturbed in the bathroom. He left a note. Why?

 

> _Sherlock,_
> 
> _We have no sausages. I feel like bangers and mash (and yes, I’ll make those peas you like so much. I have no idea why you think they’re amazing, it’s ridiculously simple) for dinner and I’m not about to wait for you to get out of the shower for my turn and then going out. I’ll feel too comfortable otherwise. Looks like I’ll be leaving sand all over the Jeep (don’t worry, I’ll clean it...later). So just in case you happen to get worried, I’m heading for that butchers (Marvin’s) that you suggested._

> _Don’t spend too much time on your hair (I bet you did :D)_

> _-John._

> _Oh, by the way, I’m glad I decided to follow you. Is there going to be a next time? –J_
> 
>  

Fascinating, that John chose to scribe a letter than compose a text.

Sherlock didn’t mind it at all. It called up the occasional notes they used to leave each other around Baker Street as a game – starting somewhere around the business with Irene Adler. Usually shopping lists and reminders not to plot murder (from John, whenever he was in a tetchy mood and was loathe to deal with imbeciles at New Scotland Yard), and the occasional reminder for household chores and important upcoming events.

Sherlock passed the note over and over in his hands, idly tracing the written words and the quality of the paper (from the yellowed notebook in the study – John must have been heading out and remembered to write something). He felt his cheeks warm and a tiny smile of fondness smoothed over his face.

Sentiment.

This…

The beach idea had definitely been a bonding exercise and helped to ease them back into shadows of the former moulds of friendship, but this note was evidence of that. John, leaving him a note like they used to.

Cursing himself for his pining and pathetic emotions, Sherlock took the note, folded it neatly, and put it in a wooden box hidden under the bed which held other bits and bobs collected over the decades of his life. He took a moment to indulge in his other treasures.

Redbeard’s first collar, a black one with a finely engraved silver name tag.

The first piece of sea glass he had ever collected, about as long as his thumb and faintly blue.

A shell casing from John’s gun.

His mother’s mathematics thesis – which he secretly adored and found very little fault with – and one of his father’s old, tattered pair of gloves.

Amid those were gifts from grateful clients for solving their crimes. Not ordinary gifts (like those ghastly cufflinks from the Reichenbach affair), but wondrous ones. Pure ruby from a noble lady in India, a very realistic account of Jack the Ripper’s mystique. There were others items of course. Perhaps of questionable legality, but he had vowed that no one else would know of them.

He placed the note carefully on top and inexplicably witnessed a rush of pride.

Like he had with that psychosomatic limp so long ago, he was helping John to fix another part of him. He could feel their bond almost humming with equal companionship, the first time since he had returned.

With a smile, Sherlock stood and clattered down the stairs.

He would play John’s favourite pieces on his violin tonight.

As thanks. And because John deserved it.


	8. Interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Beta'd or Brit-picked. 
> 
> Oh look at that, I managed to get this up before the 9th of April. Yipee for me! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy these bumps on the road ;)

Things had been going well.

Too well.

John should have known that something would have crept along and injected gloom into the calm days in Sussex.

That was his life after all. Just when he thought he could glimpse some lasting happiness it was soon snatched away.

It was a slow, sludgy feeling through his veins when he woke up one morning. He didn’t want to get up out of bed. There was no motivation. Nothing. He couldn’t even think properly, his thoughts cloudy and unfocussed as he stared at the bedside lamp, not even really seeing it. It was just a point to fix his gaze as lethargy curled up in his chest.

John could remember this feeling. The abject depression hanging around post-war, pre-Sherlock. It made his head feel heavy, his mouth full of cotton wool and he just wanted to sink further into his sheets until he was cocooned, but he didn’t even have the willpower for that.

He knew what he should be doing. He should be getting up, getting dressed, following the morning routines he had set. Going to ask Sherlock for a distraction to shake himself from the miserable mood settling over him. He should, if anything, write something in his journal, just to get what was floating around in his head _out_.

But he didn’t.

He continued to lay in bed, staring aimlessly at the lamp.

The sounds of life from beyond his door stirred not even the slightest interest – in what Sherlock was doing, what were the plans for the day. He only listened to the soft sounds of Sherlock’s footsteps, the faint clattering from crockery, and the smell of spinach. John scrunched up his nose. Now that was really putting him off. He huffed and turned away from the door – the pull and stretch of his muscles seemingly all the energy he could spare.

Why did everything have to _hurt_ so much?

Happy thoughts couldn’t even be brought to the forefront of his mind to cheer himself up.

Why now? Things had been good since the beach a week ago. Lazy days filled with reading and actually taking time to listen to BBC radio comedy while Sherlock puttered away in his lab and paint room. He and Sherlock had established all their old games again. Like the one where John made a statement and Sherlock would have to say whatever came to mind first. When John had asked him to be best man the first time, Sherlock had believed they had been playing the game again, and so gave him a wonderfully off the topic answer.

“John?”

John tilted his head to look at the door. While he had been drifting off in his head, Sherlock had come in, standing just inside the room dressed in his usual attire of dressing gown, trousers and dress shirt. He felt like snarling at how well presented and put together Sherlock appeared, the jealousy rising up, fierce and ugly. “What?” he snapped.

Sherlock recoiled – it was barely visible, just a half a shuffled step backward and a twitch in his jaw line – and asked, “You alright?”

“Peachy. No, I’m not hungry, I can feed myself, I’m not fine but I’m going to say I’m fine, and if you could just give me some peace, it’d be a miracle,” John rattled off. He thumped back down onto the bed, not even bothering to care about the guilt and resentment rising up.

Without a word, he heard the other man turn and leave, his steps measured and even as he retreated back downstairs.

That was definitely guilt nudging at him insistently. John chose to steadfastly ignore it. He nestled further into his bad mood.

It wasn’t about Mary, specifically, or about Eleanor, Sherlock, Moriarty, about whether it would be worth going to make an appointment with Ella, or about anything else. His emotions weren’t a derivative from a particular issue, it was more what had been building up behind the scenes. It was a work in progress, dealing with it all.

After a few hours, John decided he’d had enough of wallowing in bed, and decided to go and wallow in the kitchen. At least there’d be food there.

He dressed in ratty grey track pants and the most threadbare jumper he could find and shuffled down into the kitchen. Sherlock was most likely out in the garden preparing for spring when the bees would produce the most honey, as the lower level of the cottage was silent, bereft of the usual little noises and motion from the other inhabitant. To disrupt the quiet, John drifted into the living room to switch on the radio. The Beatles sung out calmly, and his disposition began to shift. He sighed and headed to the fridge. His appetite was returning which he took as a good sign.

He opened the door and promptly jumped back with a bitten off shout.

“SHERLOCK!” he yelled.

He should have known this would have happened sooner or later. And to be honest, this was more tame than the usual experiments his mad friend would put in the fridge. But Sherlock hadn’t done anything of the sort since their holiday began a month ago. That, combined with John’s negative mood, tipped the restrained doctor over the edge.

The back door banged as Sherlock rushed through, slightly panicked. “Are you alright?” he asked, searching John for injury visually.

“No I’m bloody NOT! I’ve put up with a lot Sherlock, but you could at least leave a bloody note on the fridge mentioning there’s a bloody dead bird in there! Pinned on the best chopping board no less!” John shouted, flinging the door wider in point.

Sherlock frowned. “I needed to put it there to keep it fresh.”

“Oh you and your bloody experiments. What about the food in there? I’ll have to throw it all out now!” John argued.

“Only the rice and the apples. Everything is in containers. And it would be prudent to bin the rice regardless, as it’s been more than 24 hours since it has been cooked. More chance of growing bacteria that could threaten us with food poisoning. And while I should have notified you, I don’t see the problem,” Sherlock said in what John liked to call his ‘it’s logical of course’ tone.

John felt like he could have popped a vein right then and there.

Unlike any person in their right mind realising that perhaps he shouldn’t yell at his friend for something that at another time would have only earned Sherlock a light scolding and sarcasm, John’s toxic mindset wasn’t doing him any favours. He didn’t walk away like he should have.

“Sherlock-“ he growled.

“Besides,” Sherlock continued blithely, “it’s an Iceland Gull. They migrate from Canada and Greenland in winter, but only rarely in Britain. This one was malnourished and died as result of it. I find it fascinating why this one in particular was unable to get as much nutrition as his fellows. This is why I have chosen to preserve it.” His eyes widened fractionally when his attempt to appeal to the curious side of John was rebuffed with a glare that would have made stone crack.

“Shut up,” snapped John.

“Why? What have I done wrong _this_ time? I conceded I should have left you a note and will apologize but there is no need-“

“No need for what? To go nuts? You don’t get to control me like that. I’ll get pissy if I bloody well want to and you won’t stop me,” the shorter man snarled.

“Evidently,” Sherlock said drily, taking a step back. He knew he would be fighting a losing battle if he stayed.

Unfortunately, John wouldn’t let him go that easily.

“Don’t back away like a coward. Don’t you dare,” he hissed. He ignored the danger bells in his mind. He wanted to hurt someone or something. He could feel the anger spoiling him, getting the better of him, but the sharpness of it felt better than the black soul sucking sadness of earlier.

“What would you have me do?” Sherlock asked, calmly raising his hands defensively.

“Take the bloody thing out and fling it out into the ocean and then scrub everything it touched with disinfectant until it gleams. Then come back and-“ John said, pausing as he thought about what else could be penance when Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and that sharp tongue of his came out to play.

“Anything else, _Captain_ , would you like me to shine your boots too? Maybe scrub the bathroom floor with my toothbrush. Submit myself to a whipping?” he said sarcastically.

“Don’t mock me. Don’t mock what I used to do. Smart arse.” John’s fists clenched. Oh if he knew his conscious wouldn’t flay him alive later, how liberating it would feel to swing just one punch. “I just want you to realise-“

“What? That I’m some sort of child in need of scolding?” taunted Sherlock lowly.

“How selfish you are!” bellowed John. “You’ve been selfish all your life I bet!”

The detective’s visage flashed with fear for the slightest moment, John’s yell sudden, loud, and downright terrifying, before he decided delicacy wasn’t going to cut it. “Selfish? Yes. But recently. No. And you listen to me, I have not been selfish with _you_.”

“You-“

“I let you have your space when I came back from the dead, I waited for you to come to me. I hosted your little pre-engagement party at my home even though you know I detest such social gatherings. I didn’t attempt to sabotage your relationship Mary when we met because I saw just how important she was to you. I assisted in your wedding planning because you asked. I could have said no, I could have watched you flounder with it and paid attention to the _hundreds_ of cases I was flooded with, but I didn’t. I could have stayed at your wedding reception longer than I did to be an absolute mood killer when I got bored enough to deduce everyone. I could have asked for help with the drugs but I thought it was unfair for a newly married man to assist me. I could have outright told you about Mary and let you confront her by yourself. I could have let Magnussen ruin everyone’s lives but I chose to put _my highly valued_ autonomy at risk to protect those I cherish. I could have allowed Mycroft to arrest Mary, I’m sure he would have come up with enough. I could have left you alone to grieve for your family when they were gone but I chose to support you. I chose to bring you here, a house no one except for my family and Greta knows about. All these ‘could haves’ John…are they the marks of a _wholly_ selfish man?” Sherlock demanded after his spiel, and spun on his heel and stalked out of the door.

John was left in stunned silence.

Sherlock had let him have it. And it was completely deserved.

Even if he resented it with the heat of a thousand suns.

With a grunt, he stomped to the front porch, angrily stuffing his feet into his running shoes and took off. He followed the road along the fields, feet pounding hard on the dirt track, his body coiling and releasing with each step. Soon, his breathing was laboured and his muscles screamed because he hadn’t stretched but he didn’t stop. He would have done something needlessly dramatic like pound the ground with his fists if he stopped.

Soon John didn’t even notice the protests of his body at the abruptly rough treatment it was receiving, too caught up in his emotions once more.

He was ashamed now, worming its way past the anger and the moroseness of earlier. He hadn’t been fair to Sherlock – stupid to realise now, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly.

He hadn’t been fair to himself either. He had fallen back into his old habit. To pretend everything was okay, to ignore how his mental wellbeing was tracking to settle into the routine he and Sherlock had established. And he definitely shouldn’t have let himself fall into the black mood earlier. He should have allowed Sherlock to distract him until he was ready to talk about it, or done something to shake himself up. He had made the wrong decision and the poor choice had manifested itself in a short lived but intense outburst.

When John finally stopped, he looked around, noting that he had circled back towards _Apibus_ and stood on the hill overlooking the cottage, sheltering the garden from the elements. He puffed, evening his breathing after his run, noticing in the process a familiar black sedan pulled up next to their rented Jeep.

Mycroft Holmes was here.

As if this day couldn’t get any worse.

* * *

Mycroft had the most impeccable timing.

Sherlock had stormed back into the kitchen a few minutes after walking out, intent on making John choke out words, to find his brother sitting calmly at the kitchen table, a custard tart laid out on the table before him.

“Nice to see your rehabilitation plans are on schedule – although I do think you should attempt to impress upon the need for observation on John. The fellow is obviously distraught if he didn’t notice the car coming down the drive as he ran off,” the embodiment of the British government began calmly, running cool eyes over his sibling and arching an eyebrow. “Domesticity is suiting you. You appear to be in good health indeed. Put on five pounds I see.”

“Four point six actually,” Sherlock corrected acerbically. He was still highly frustrated with John.

“You also have slowed your thought processes. Unusual,” observed Mycroft.

“Reorganising storage in my mind for maximum efficiency, especially after recent events. Now…what brings you here?”

“Sit! I insist,” Mycroft said graciously.

Sherlock frowned. The tone was, oddly enough, not mocking. He quickly took in the edges of exhaustion on his brother’s face, the softness of satisfaction around his lips, and the presence of custard tart for them to share. Mycroft rarely brought custard tart and it was significant. It was a treat they both enjoyed and indulged in for times of triumph. He paused with the realisation of the news Mycroft was here to transmit, and fetched a knife, forks, and two plates from the cupboard and sat opposite.

“Well?” the younger Holmes prompted.

“You don’t wish to wait for John to finish off his depressive mood and self-recrimination for the way he treated you? Given the pace of his run, it seems you have hit him with a few hard truths,” Mycroft observed wryly.

“Perhaps too many,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft leant back, his countenance (to Sherlock’s horror) turning fond and knowing. “He will know more by the time the spring is out.”

“Mycroft-“ Sherlock said warningly.

Mycroft smirked. “I almost thought you would tell him before you left on that jet. A perfect cliché to finish the relationship, the last reveal of hidden, honest emotions in the hope of ending things clean. How advantageous you did not lay out all your cards after all. It would have been incredibly awkward when you returned for him to know undoubtedly how attached you have become,” he said.

Sherlock cut two perfect slices of the tart, glaring all the while. He didn’t refute it. He wouldn’t insult his brother’s intelligence in doing so.

“Of course, it is advantageous as well now that the troublesome wife is gone that his own feelings have been coming back to the fore,” Mycroft continued, smugly nibbling on his slice of tart.

“He’s not in love with me,” Sherlock finally gritted out. That was a fool’s dream.

“He used to be. He still is, but the poor man is confused. Can you blame him? Certainly not,” Mycroft pointed out. “Although I dare say your sacrifices for him will not go unrewarded. Things take time to bloom, brother dear. I am sure your relationship will change once again.”

“Don’t. Don’t talk about it like you know. You don’t know, you know nothing about…all this,” Sherlock snapped, whirling his hand about in the air to encompass the convoluted path his and John’s intertwined life had taken.

Mycroft’s shrewd gaze pinned the detective – and he so hated when he felt like a child again under that stare – and said, “I may not, but I know I have never seen two individuals interact like you and John. There is a certain element of inevitability to it all. Whether it creates or destructs is another matter entirely.”

“Stop speaking like a 19th century romance novel. It’s unbecoming of you,” Sherlock said with an air of distain, forcefully pushing back from the table and moving to the living room, grabbing his violin and stroking the bow over the strings roughly. He felt his racing pulse calm at the familiar screech of the strings protesting their abuse. This, at least, was familiar.

Mycroft followed, settling down in the armchair. “Fine. Well allow me to speak plainly. As for now you are not under threat, chase after something not to do with logic or science or crime for once. John Watson is the best thing to ever happen to you and if you both don’t disengage your heads from your rears I will take drastic action,” he murmured.

Sherlock stared warily at his sibling, wondering if he was having one of those out of body experiences people yammered about when they were messing with religion or spirits. His own boring, unemotional, intellectually brilliant brother was giving him relationship advice. “I think this is the only time in our lives you have actually given me advice like this.”

“I’m not going to get in the habit,” Mycroft retorted.

“God forbid, I’d know the world would be on the edge of apocalypse if so.” The younger man rolled his eyes and switched his frenetic abuse of the violin to some Brahms. “You know,” he added, almost too soft for Mycroft to hear, “you should do the same.”

Mycroft shrugged.

Footsteps arriving on the back porch broke the silence, and John walked in. His hair stuck up, still sweaty from his run, but all the fight had visibly left him.

“Hello Mycroft. Tea?” he asked upon seeing the brothers quietly regarding him.

“No, thank you. Sit, I have a brief matter to discuss and I will take my leave. I have no desire to stay long,” the older Holmes said. He mentioned to the sofa end opposite Sherlock. John took the seat, spine stiff and pointedly not looking in his friend’s direction.

“What’s the situation with Moriarty?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft appeared momentarily displeased to be rushed, but replied, “Captured. His arrogance was his downfall. He believed that with his little tricks and ruses that it wouldn’t be obvious he was squirreled away in a shack outside of Dublin. Technological playground hidden underground – uninventive but effective. He was furious. Keeps asking after you, actually. Wants to chat.”

Sherlock and John snorted in disbelief. “Yes, chat,” sneered the younger man. “About what, comparing notes on how we faked death? Perhaps just how his network damn near broke me? Yes…let’s chat.”

John couldn’t hold back his grin at Sherlock’s sarcasm. “I think I’ve got a bone or two to pick with him,” he said.

Mycroft’s eyes darted between them as he smiled indulgently. “Well, luckily for the pair of you, I have permission to indefinitely hold him until we have amassed enough evidence to put him behind bars permanently. He is under the highest security,” he assured. Catching the way John was rigid and Sherlock paled, he hastened to add, “But there’s no need to hurry. It would be best if you confront him after the goals you have set for this little holiday have been achieved.”

“There’s nothing little about this holiday,” John said coldly.

Mycroft’s mouth tightened as he regarded the ex-soldier and stood. “I see I have just about outstayed my welcome. John, if I could have a moment with you outside?”

It was clear from his tone that it wasn’t a suggestion.

“Fine.”

“Wait a moment,” Sherlock murmured, rising gracefully to stand before his brother. He flicked his eyes over Mycroft’s worn face and did something he hadn’t in nearly 20 years. He reached out and embraced him, resting his forehead lightly on a suited shoulder. A wordless thanks for his earnest efforts.

John’s jaw was hanging slack, and Mycroft had an expression of such shock the doctor wondered if he was about to have a heart attack. After a few seconds, Mycroft lightly patted Sherlock’s back and whispered to him, “You’re welcome little brother.”

“Breathe a word of this to our parents and I will lace your chocolate cakes with itching powder,” Sherlock threatened with none of his usual bite, giving him one last quick squeeze and scurrying off to the kitchen.

“Huh,” John grunted, “never thought I’d see that.”

“Me either. Out on the porch if you please, John. I’d rather my brother not be in earshot,” Mycroft replied, slipping back into his usual collected facade.

John rolled his eyes. The dramatics of the Holmes brothers never ceased to amaze him. He was close to the trigger edge. Mycroft knew this. It would be interesting to see if Mycroft was giving him his vague version of sage advice or attempting to threaten him (again). He led the way out to the front, leaning against the porch railing and crossing his arms. When Mycroft shut the door firmly, he raised an eyebrow. The less he had to speak, the better.

“Are you enjoying your time away from London? It appears to be doing you well,” Mycroft began congenially, but John saw through it instantly.

“There’s not much to be enjoyed when you’re forced to take a good hard look at yourself,” John said.

“Ah. That is a good thing,” Mycroft replied.

John snorted, the sound making the other man twitch. “Not when you don’t like what you find.”

“I see your earlier tiff with my brother has soured your mood to anything I will say. Perhaps something to do with him and how you feel about your friendship?” Mycroft probed, taking a step towards the shorter man.

“Whatever the status of our friendship, it has never been any of your business. That has been between Sherlock and I alone, and if I was wrong, or he was wrong about whatever we’ve been disagreed about, it’s our problem. I don’t need you being nosy,” John retorted stonily. His face was blank faced, forbidding, but it strangely drew pity, not irritation, out of Mycroft.

“I know you come nowhere near the realm of my intellect, or Sherlock’s, but sure you cannot be so blind as to what is before your eyes?”

John wished the other man could fuck off. He didn’t need an outside influence needling him about what the hell was going on with him and Sherlock.

Mycroft continued, smiling an eerie smile. “Or maybe you’re still in deep denial. Pity. You see but do not observe. You see my brother as a selfish man, one who does not know the meaning of sacrifice. But then look at all he has sacrificed for _you_. Interesting. Isn’t it?”

John had to say it. “Would you piss off. I don’t need-“

“What? Someone to shove the truth at you? While I understand your bitterness, your anger and grief, you are allowing this to get the better of you. I remember the John Watson before my brother sacrificed it all to make sure he wasn’t dead. You are capable of being that man again. The man who wasn’t shattered.” Mycroft’s eyes were intense, beseeching, making John feel uncomfortable. “Stop judging others on your preconceived notions. There is something new to every day. Even discovering more about those we care for in our lives.”

“Sorry if I’m not taking these to heart. You’re more emotionally distanced than Sherlock is,” John deadpanned. His skin was crawling. He had to escape this conversation.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Of course. Feels like therapy, doesn’t it?”

John refused to reply, staring stubbornly out over the field.

Mycroft signed and turned, walking to the car. “Farewell then. I hope to see you are in better spirits should I need to visit again.”

“Yeah, see you,” John said.

It wasn’t until Mycroft’s nondescript black car rolled to the end of the drive that John huffed out a sigh. Wearily, he tumbled into the waiting hammock, wiggling around to get comfortable in the mound of pillows.

Mycroft had a point.

And he hated it when Mycroft was correct about something (a topic of bonding between he and Sherlock).

Sherlock had sacrificed. Hell, he had acknowledged it the other week! He knew Sherlock made an exception for him in so many ways. He had accommodated John into his life – something he hadn’t done for others. It was just easy to forget what others did for you in the face of fury.

Running across the countryside had given John time to think. And he felt rotten for what he did.

It also got him thinking about his emotions whenever Sherlock was concerned. And how non-platonic they had been. The question was…did he still feel (no matter how much he told himself otherwise) the same vaguely romantic feelings now, after everything? This whole trip was reminding him painfully of how Sherlock was before and after the fall, compared with now, this strangely sweet and gentle nature that had previously been tucked away.  

It confused John.

For Mycroft to point out his denial, his wilful blindness, only drew his mind to this line of thought.

“He wasn’t too obnoxious was he?”

Sherlock’s smooth voice caused John to jerk up, almost toppling out of the hammock. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, righting himself. “Give me a bit of warning.”

“Sorry,” muttered the detective, pushing a cup of tea into John’s hands and settling back against the railing opposite. “So, my arse end brother…what did he want?”

“The usual. Trying to offer advice where it wasn’t wanted,” John replied.

“Hmm. So, how are we feeling about the Moriarty news?”

John flicked a glance over Sherlock, finding him open to the discussion. He wasn’t concerned and that alone told him he shouldn’t be either. “I’m glad the bastard is locked up and we don’t have to break our necks either trying to find him or outrun him. Let’s just hope he stays there,” he answered, taking a deep draught of tea. It soothed the sudden butterflies in his stomach. Whether it was from Sherlock’s intense gaze or nervousness because the words from their argument still lingered – as if written in the air – was uncertain.

“Me too.”

“You sure?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted in a grim smile. “Oh, definitely. Two years playing like one of Mycroft’s agents to take down a web, and for what? The king spider was still there the whole time. No, I don’t want to visit Moriarty just yet for a tete a tete. I have more valuable things to be concerned about,” he said, gazing pointedly into John’s eyes.

“I see,” John murmured.

“No. You don’t,” Sherlock hissed.

The doctor closed his eyes and said, “Look, I’m sorry for this morning. I was in a bad place.”

“I know. But I thought the whole point of being here was so that we’re in these ‘bad places’ as you’ve so ineffectually called them, we actually attempt to work it out instead of ignoring it. Isn’t that what we said? That we’d support each other like friends should? I may be rubbish at this whole friends thing in general, but what you did isn’t what…” the detective sighed, his spiel tapering off when he noticed John’s guilt painted across his features.

“John…look at me,” he coaxed softly.

The dark blue eyes met his, wary. “Yeah, we covered I’m a dickhead, but what?” he said.

“You need to guide me. I don’t have much applicative or demonstrated knowledge of how people like us help each other. I don’t know if I’m doing well for you unless you tell me,” Sherlock replied. To him, it was very logical. Something wrong? Talk. John used to have no compunction about telling him what was wrong in 221B, with his catchphrase of ‘bit not good.’

“You have been very considerate,” John hastened to assure. “It was me, just…clamming up again.”

“Don’t. Don’t push me out like that. I hate it.”

John nodded. That was crystal clear. “So when you sulk it’s okay?” he said, unable to resist one last shot.

“No. It’s not,” Sherlock replied. “And that’s when I rely on you to tell me when I’m being ridiculous.”

“Right,” the doctor said quietly.

Sherlock levelled him with such a forlorn expression that John found all he wanted to do was grab his hand and tug him into the hammock – to forge some connection, even if it was physical. In the end, he did nothing as Sherlock searched him with something akin to longing an walked back in the house.

John grimaced. He had stepped wrongly there, letting his pride stand in the way again. He finished his tea and swung himself out of the hammock and made his way back inside.


	9. Chapter 9

“We have a case.”  
  


“No silent treatment today?” John muttered, focusing on his honey smothered toast.  
  


“Stop acting like a resentful teenager. One day of silence hardly classifies as such,” Sherlock replied coolly.  
  


John fought to hide a wince. So, that’s how it was. Fine. Great. Whatever. “You mean _you_ have a case,” he amended.  
  


Sherlock fought the urge to just go and do that. Leave John behind, leave him stewing in his own annoyance and guilt, so they could both take two steps backward. No. He had been dragged through the mud enough, and he didn’t want to regain the ground he had fought for.  
  


“I know this is meant to be a peaceful holiday, but I thought a case might be something we could still partake in if you were so inclined. It’s in Brighton. The local police chief called Lestrade, wanting to call us in from London. Because we are in the vicinity I thought you wouldn’t mind,” Sherlock said.  
  


“Of course I bloody mind!” John replied. “I wanted…”  
  


But in truth, he couldn’t think of anything else he would rather do right now. Bring back an element, a constant of their friendship that had always endured. The cases. But he was feeling resentful that Sherlock could just up and ask him like everything was fine when it so clearly wasn’t. He had made a token protest as a barrier to the inevitable giving in to Sherlock’s way.  
  


“What?” the detective prompted.  
  


John sighed. He wouldn’t bother with explaining. “I’m coming. Just give me a moment.”  
  


As he made to walk to the staircase, John halted at Sherlock’s voice, quiet and rapid. “Yesterday was to give you time. Not to punish.”  
  


The doctor’s head dipped in acknowledgement – even as part of his mind went ‘ _bullshit’_ and the other went ‘ _oh.’_

* * *

Sherlock and John arrived an hour later at a quaint bed and breakfast called ‘Sage.’ It was easy to see where the white-washed building received its name from. Bushes of the plant were everywhere, filling the air with a faint aroma.   
  


“Fitting,” John observed. Sherlock grunted in agreement, bypassing the flimsy yellow tape to meet the reedy detective inspector on the other side anxiously peering at them both.  
  


“Sherlock Holmes?” the DI asked.  
  


Sherlock nodded, fixing his eyes on the ferret like face. Deducing. He summed up easily that the man had been DI less than a year, was honest and good at his job, but not well respected. A case like this if handled incorrectly would break what little career he had. Not that Sherlock cared. He only cared about how much the DI would give him free reign.  
  


“My friend, Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock said, reaching back and waving his arm to encompass John’s form.  
  


“Of course, of course, the blogger. Fantastic material, that. I’m Gus Smorton, the one who called up London,” the DI said. “I didn’t think you’d actually come!”  
  


“We were in the region,” John supplied.  
  


Sherlock pursed his lips, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Small talk. He detested it. “DI Smorton, what is it about this murder that prompted you to call a consulting detective from London in the small chance he would be willing to have a look at your murder scene? It’s not something usual. You wouldn’t have called otherwise. No, this has potential for scandal or fear so tell me…why am I here?”  
  


The man gulped nervously. “I think…well, I’d rather you take a look. We’ve had to take the body away, but I’ve got pictures,” he replied.  
  


DI Smorton turned around, beckoning them to follow him. John and Sherlock shared a brief look of confusion – other DI’s had never been so willing for analysis – and followed him to the building. Inside the door, the smaller man took a file from a policeman guarding the entrance and handed it to them. “Don’t open it just yet. I want you to see the room before you look at the victim’s body,” he said gravely. “We’ve cleared everyone out of the place and the owners live in the granny flat at the back. We’re monitoring their movements. Call came in last night just before midnight from the owners when they heard odd scraping sounds from room four.”  
  


“How many others are staying here?” Sherlock asked.  
  


“Only one other couple. They were put up in room one, at the opposite end of the floor. They didn’t hear a thing,” the detective supplied.  
  


Sherlock knew what that meant. The walls were thin – the only way that the other couple hadn’t heard anything was because they were most likely having sex. Backed up by the fact that the owners – about to lock up and return to their own residence no doubt – had heard the noises from the floor below.  
  


“I’m not used to mystery from the DI’s I work with,” Sherlock remarked quietly as they came to door four.  
  


“Your reputation precedes you. I thought it would be best if I just let you have carte blanche with it because we don’t even have one lead. Even the prelim’s on everything are coming up all question marks,” Smorton replied with a brief smile.  
  


John snorted. “Mate, you’re one in a million then.”  
  


Sherlock ignored them as he opened up the door.  
  


He saw the room, but more importantly, his mind seemed to whirl to life, bursts of colour streaming across his vision. He blinked, letting the data assimilate, his newly reorganised mind palace flashing possible patterns, explanations, logical reasoning and information at the forefront of his thoughts. He shut his eyes, waiting for his eager mind – stimulated, the work at last! – to ease. When he opened his eyes again, he stepped in, instantly knowing that this was at least a 7. An 8 if he was wrong about what the solitary flower in the middle of the crimson streaked bed was.  
  


He darted about, examining the blood pool at the foot of the bed – tacky and half dried,  the flecks of the crimson fluid on the tail ends of the quilt but not on the walls, the faint shoe print on the mat by the bathroom door – a women’s shoe, evident in the print of flowers from the sole.  
  


A bouquet of flowers was strewn around where the body had been.  
  


“Victim’s male, yes?” he asked.  
  


“Yeah…but how’d you-?” the DI began.  
  


“The blood pool spread around his shoulders. Shoulders that broad? Most likely male. He was dead before the blood was spilled. So he came here willingly, and in such a way to sneak past the house’s owners. He was killed before being stabbed, soon enough after death so that was no struggle. Ordinarily, I would say we were looking at a male perpetrator, but without looking at the wounds on the body, I do believe this killer is in fact a woman,” Sherlock said rapidly, peering around the room more intensely than before.  
  


“A woman!” Smorton exclaimed.  
  


“Perhaps. Without your full report, I cannot be completely certain. Only reasonably certain,” Sherlock said with only half a mind to his words. He was, in fact, more interested in the strewn flowers.  
  


“What makes you say it’s a woman?” asked John. Sherlock took a second to appreciate that John always asked the _right_ questions.  
  


“A shoe-print and the flowers. The flowers! Look at them, really look!” the taller man cried with a touch of smugness, waiting for them to realise.  
  


John was the one to get closer and see what Sherlock had. “They’re not flowers at all. They’re like those fancy cake decorations you see on wedding cakes,” he said. He spun to look at Sherlock, who was typing furiously on his phone. “So what are you saying exactly?”  
  


“Oh, isn’t it obvious?”  
  


“Insulting me is, the pretty cake flowers aren’t. So?” John pressed.  
  


Sherlock pressed his lips together in pique. “According to this quick search there is only _one_ establishment for twenty kilometres around that designs such cakes in this particular flower style. ‘Ar-cake-techture’ – what a ridiculous pun. In their staff profiles, we have three women, and one male. Chances are killer is female,” he commented. He shoved his phone towards DI Smorton.  
  


The man groaned, “Dear god, this is making sense. The vic is the guy in this picture. Paul Onan. So…killer’s one of his co-workers?”  
  


Sherlock nodded. “Given the flowers – they are a marker, she wants to be found out at least subconsciously – the amount of artistic detail in them is enough to implicate anyone from the bakery. Do any of the women have a violent history or show comfort with the gruesome sides of life? Any problems you know of?”  
  


“I couldn’t tell you, I don’t know them well,” Smorton replied, shaking his head.  
  


Sherlock bit down on a sly insult. Of course the man wouldn’t have known. He was too concerned on how to do his job than following on with town gossip.  
  


Finally, he flicked open the folder containing the preliminary reports and crime scene photos. “Mmm,” he hummed.  
  


“What?” asked John, carefully watching Sherlock for the body language which told him the genius had caught on something.  
  


“Look at the victim’s wounds,” prompted the consulting detective.  
  


John did, finding what Sherlock had in a few seconds. “That looks like food colouring or icing or something, just around the edges,” he noted.  
  


Sherlock turned his icy gaze to the DI. “That should have started you off. Fire whoever collected the evidence from the body and didn’t bring it to your attention,” he admonished cuttingly. Without another word, he stalked out of the room, coat flapping along behind him, John hastily nodding at the DI before following.  
  


“Please tell me we’re not going to go randomly knocking on some women’s doors and hope they’ll just admit to murder?” John called out.  
  


Sherlock whirled out of the house and replied, “You saw those photos. The wounds were perfectly concentric. Of course not. First, we’re going to find the murder weapon!”  
  


“What _is_ the weapon again?” the doctor asked.  
  


Sherlock turned to smirk at him. “Well, it seems that he was shallowly stabbed several times by sharpened piping nozzles that weren’t cleaned very well. Interesting choice. This should be easy,” he answered  
  


“That’s how everything always starts,” John muttered, but a grin stole over his face.  
  


The game was on.

* * *

 

Adrenalin had burnt the pair out by the time they arrived back at _Apibus_ late that night. They had found and caught the murderer – an unassuming baker’s assistant with a thirst for greatness named Lila Torlin. Her motive had been simple. Jealousy. She had wanted Paul out the way because more and more of her clients had switched to his.

Sherlock had been completely disgusted at the baseness of it all.

Unfortunately their giddiness in catching the killer after chasing her around the bakery and dodging eggs and cupcakes dusted with icing sugar had faded after having to recount Sherlock’s deductions to the DI. As much as Smorton had been accommodating, he had been insistent on having every record filled and up to department standards before he let them leave.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat, tossing it towards the rack before flopping gracefully onto the sofa.

John rolled his eyes. Drama queen. Although the thought was mainly laced with affection.

He hadn’t seen Sherlock like that for a long time.

He had blazed, as brilliant and as bright as a supernova for the first time since the Fall. It was all John could do to keep up with Sherlock’s manic energy throughout the day as they chased Sherlock’s line of reasoning, searching for leads and clues that would lead them to the perpetrator. Something clicked, his irritation of the morning becoming unimportant, and he felt utterly at peace.

Odd, considering the past few hours had nothing to do with peace.

A low chuckle rose up from where Sherlock had mashed his face into the sofa cushion.

“Sherlock?” John asked, coming around to the front of the couch, shucking his own jacket and boots as he did so.

Sherlock twisted around to lie on his back. Bright mist coloured eyes shone up at him, contented and alive.

John felt something in his chest tighten as he saw Sherlock looking just the same after their first case together.

“Oh that was _glorious_ , wasn’t it?” Sherlock murmured breathlessly. He was already filing the details of the case away securely in his mind palace. His mind was humming along contentedly, buzzing with usefulness and eagerness and cleverness. Today had been perfect – save for the ridiculous murder motive and the paperwork, but there had to be some trade off – and he hadn’t felt this good in a long, long time.

“Yes. You were. Well, luminous I guess,” John replied, choosing to sit in the dip offered by Sherlock’s legs. “You were absolutely bloody fantastic. Putting those clues together like that…well, there’s never anything quite like it.”

Sherlock smiled at John, wanting to act on his impulses, pulling the other man into an embrace and laugh. Kiss him too. He settled for resting his knee against the broad expanse of John’s back. “I haven’t heard that in awhile,” he said.

“Heard what?”

“You. Saying that I’m…well…amazing. That you think I’m amazing,” Sherlock explained.

The doctor paused then, raking his brain. Surely he had complimented Sherlock like that since…

No. He hadn’t. Not really. And never genuinely since…well, he left. John knew this was a part of their relationship that needed fixing. He reached out and clasped the detective’s forearm where it lay against his torso. “Of course you are. Even when you’re being a bit insufferable, you’re amazing,” he whispered.

Sherlock felt warm and giddy all of a sudden. “Thank you.”

In that moment, he began to hope. That soon, it would happen. The tension between them would break, one of them would finally take that step and then…

“I’m sorry. You know, for the other day. Who knows how much time we’ve got, and I shouldn’t be pissed at you for no real reason,” John said, breaking into Sherlock’s burgeoning fantasy.

“Oh it’s fine. Really. Knew you’d come round. I don’t expect you to be perfect,” the taller man replied. “Creeping into the melancholy, doctor?”

John looked away, licking his lower lip nervously. “Might have to.”

“Why?”

The shorter man slid down off the couch, sitting on the floor and wiggling across so that he was closer to Sherlock’s head. “Have you ever deduced where my trust issues have come from?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t been expecting introspection. “Not quite. I know that they were triggered by events in your early childhood and because of the way the world treated you since in terms of familial relations and continuous disappointment. But I have never been able to figure out what it is exactly that leaves you so unwilling to trust others, given your temperament and behaviour around me,” he said. He frowned. “You want to do this now?”

John sighed, “Don’t worry about it. Timing is pretty bad and-“

“I agree.” Sherlock knew John hadn’t expected him to concur, which made his expression of confusion quite interesting to behold. “Not that I don’t want to listen. I think I’ve proven my point about wanting to sort out this…whatever you want to call it. However, we’re both exhausted. Could lead to misunderstandings, more arguments. Something I’m not willing to chance,” he explained.

“Hah. Good point. But…you do want to know?” John asked to clarify.

“Everything,” the detective replied gravely.

The doctor hmm’d and nodded, as if marking a thought down for later examination, and rose up from the floor. Sherlock reached out and took his hand. He looked contemplatively at their joined hands. He had to say something. They were changing, and they were connecting. Miscommunication was going to be a thing of the past, but he had to let John know…

“Sherlock?” probed John.

“I’m trying,” Sherlock finally said after several long minutes. His fears of rejection, of losing this brilliant, wonderful, damaged man hovered in every strain of muscle, in the slight quaver of his voice.  He let them show.

The smaller hand twined with his own and squeezed. “I know,” he murmured.

Sherlock didn’t realise he had been holding his breath until he exhaled heavily. “Good. That’s, uh, um, good.”

“You know I am too,” John said in a halting pattern, a small flush evident on his face. “I know this is contrary to everything I’ve ever done.”

“You keep doing the unexpected,” Sherlock pointed out. “When have I ever complained about that?”

“Oh, a few times, you git, and you know it,” John chuckled, gently slipping his hand free. “So…talk tomorrow?”

“If you wish. Out by the apiary, I think,” the prone man agreed.

Once John had left the room, Sherlock pressed his hands together and smiled beatifically.

Upstairs, John didn’t sleep. Instead, he dug out another journal, and began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the late update guys. This chapter gave me such grief and went through three re-writes before I was satisfied with this. 
> 
> You should have seen the chapter that almost made it. It involved a hold-up at a supermarket and Sherlock freaking out when John got pistol-whipped. In the end, I felt it was too dramatic for the tone I've set lately. 
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parental surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there. It's been five months. I'm so sorry for the wait, I'm sure you know it's the same old RL drama. Please accept this quick offering before I get the pace of the plot moving again.

They never did have that talk the next morning.

 

Primarily because when Sherlock blearily made his way down to the kitchen, he met some unexpected guests.

 

“Mum? Dad? What-?” he began incredulously. He blinked rapidly, wondering if all the good food, rest and slow living had caused his mind to hallucinate.

 

“Sorry to interrupt your break, dearest,” his mother said cheerfully. “But we hardly see you as it is, and you are in the area so we’d thought we’d pop in!”

 

Sherlock groaned and turned in his father’s direction. He wordlessly pleaded for an answer, an explanation for the sudden intrusion.

 

“Sorry Sherlock, you know how she gets,” he said with a tiny smile.

 

“Of course. Can’t bear to argue. Urgh,” Sherlock muttered. Of all times! While he was on this self imposed mental health retreat. It was exactly like when John walked in to find his mother blathering about London.

 

Speaking of John…

 

“You have to leave. Lovely to see you both, but John and I have lots of things to be doing,” he directed, coming around to pick up his mother’s handbag and shoving it into her arms. “Come on now.”

 

Marlie Holmes was used to her sons abruptness, their discomfort at her awkward mothering, and their tendency to neglect to tell her important things. But they often forgot just where they got their fierce stubbornness.

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you will not toss your father and I out like we are unwanted experiments! Now sit down while I make you a _proper_ breakfast and we actually spend some _quality_ time together that has nothing to do with bullet wounds, killing evil newspapermen, or recovering from addiction,” she said sternly, her icy blue eyes boring into her son’s.

 

Sherlock pouted. He knew there was no point arguing when his mother was like this. With ill grace, he flung himself into a chair next to his father. “Daaaaad,” he whined, making the tone extra annoying on purpose.

 

Scott Holmes chuckled and affectionately ruffled his son’s hair. “You know that the less you resist, the sooner this will be over,” he murmured.

 

“How did you even know we were here?”

 

“Mycroft,” his dad replied.

 

Sherlock pressed his lips together to prevent the blistering curses escape. He was going to spam Mycroft’s life with goldfish. In every shape and form. Goldfish in tanks or fishbowls, goldfish ties, goldfish wallpaper. It was going to happen. And then he’d bake a chocolate cake that he’d actually make out of fish and give it to his brother for Christmas.

 

“Sherlock,” Scott whispered, hearing his son growling and humming every few moments.

 

“What?”

 

“Stop plotting revenge against Mycroft. It’s not nice.”

 

Sherlock sulked further.

 

John chose that moment to make his entrance, pausing just inside the archway to take in the sight – Sherlock slumped in a chair, his head on his father’s shoulder, and Marlie flitting around the kitchen, pulling out butter, bacon and eggs from the fridge and whistling to herself – before shrugging and moving to the table to drop off the newspaper. “Good morning all. Marlie, Scott, good to see you again,” he said.

 

“Hello dear,” Marlie waved.

 

“Good morning,” Scott said.

 

“John, make them go away,” Sherlock grumbled.

 

“No,” John replied, moving on to put the kettle on. “It’s a nice surprise.”

 

“No it’s not.”

 

“Yes it is.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Joooooohn,” Sherlock said peevishly. “We were going to talk and discuss your trust issues.”

 

John rolled his eyes. Although, truth be told, he was fighting the impulse to laugh. He hadn’t seen Sherlock like this in a while. It was amusing. “Last time I checked, we don’t have any deadlines. We can spend the day with your parents if they came here just to see us.”

 

Sherlock hissed. Marlie beamed and came over to envelop John in a hug in triumph. “Oh thank you John, we haven’t had a proper day with him in a while.”

 

“Stop all this pleasantness! It’s making me feel ill,” the detective said, scowling. It earned him a light cuff over the head from his father. “What?”

 

Scott stood, carefully leaning against the chair. “Show me the bees. Let your mother get on with breakfast and we can pretend you weren’t being rude.” Without waiting for affirmation, the elder Holmes shuffled out towards the back door. With a fiercer scowl, Sherlock roughly shoved away from the table, passing his mother and John without a glance, and followed his father out.

 

John sighed as he dug the kettle out from under the kitchen sink. “He _is_ pleased,” he said to Marlie.

 

She hummed in agreement and turned to the food she was preparing. “I know. His manners are frightfully appalling and I know what he really means. He’s just a little disappointed. We interrupted this internal schedule of his.”

 

“It wasn’t that important to talk about it today.”

 

“For him it was,” Marlie said quietly.

 

John set out four mugs dutifully, frowning as he looked through the window to see Sherlock and his father walking slowly side by side. It made him wonder about a younger Sherlock, walking through his home garden while his father offered wise words and comfort. “There will be time. I’m glad to see you both, really,” he replied honestly.

 

Marlie patted his shoulder. “Us too dear. I prefer these circumstances than those at Christmas.”

 

John’s gaze narrowed. “They told you the truth then. Mycroft or Sherlock?” he asked.

 

“Mikey thought it would be prudent to update us. The tension between you and Mary had been quite tangible on Christmas day, it wasn’t hard to notice something was amiss. I just didn’t expect it to be equivalent to a Bond film,” she answered with a sad smile. “I’m sorry for what happened to you dear, if you don’t mind me saying.”

 

“No…no not at all. I’m fine,” John said reassuringly.

 

Judging from the look Marlie gave him, she didn’t quite believe him.

 

~~///~~

 

“You should have called.”

 

“And have you escape while you had the chance? No, I think we know you well enough William,” Scott replied mildly.

 

Sherlock groaned. His father only called him William when he wanted him to pay attention. Other times he switched between Billy and Sherlock. “Oh god, this is going to be an attempt at a father-son talk.”

 

“You don’t seem to mind too terribly.”

 

“And to think I actually believed you wanted to see the hives!” Sherlock sighed grumpily.

 

Scott smiled. “Oh, I do. I thought I’d just kill two birds with one stone,” he said.

 

The younger man crossed his arms. “Why? We haven’t done this since I was 26. Why now?” he rattled off accusingly.

 

Scott inspected a nearby hedge and didn’t answer. He motioned to Sherlock to keep leading on. He did so, reluctantly, knowing that his father never liked to be rushed on anything. If you tried to rush him, he would keep going at his own pace, ignoring it all. He moved to the shed, pulling out protective hats as they moved closer to the hives. He momentarily sniffed the air, and noted the sweet scent of spring, breaking through the last dregs of winter. Nature was doing its job.

 

He took the time to mentally catalogue weather conditions, the growth rate of the plants and the sound of the buzzing.

 

This, at least, made logical sense. His father’s patience did not.

 

After five minutes, in which the pair had donned the hats and gotten a closer look at the hives, Scott spoke. “I’m glad to see you’re being gentle with him.”

 

“Mycroft,” muttered Sherlock, annoyed. Could he and John ever have some privacy?

 

“Yes. He explained things. Fascinating tale, but sad. I understand why you brought him here. Made sense as soon as Mycroft mentioned it,” Scott replied. “You’ve made the right decision. John looks calmer from the last few times we’ve met him.”

 

“You’ve only seen him twice,” the younger man pointed out.

 

“Yes. Which is another reason why we decided to visit. I never thought I’d see you care so much about someone outside of you mother, Mike and I,” his father said quietly.

 

“Dad, don’t,” Sherlock said harshly. He favoured his father with a glare. “You have no right-“

 

“I have the right to meet the person who has saved my son’s life so many times over. Although it seems you’ve been matching him.” Scott raised his hand and placed it on his son’s forearm. “You’ve grown. You’ve evolved. And I am very proud of you. You’ve achieved so much. You deserve this break,” he murmured.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, gazing at the internal workings of the hive, but not really seeing it.

 

~~///~~

 

Breakfast was a quiet affair, quivering with Sherlock’s petulant silence and yet strangely peaceful. It was dispersed with light conversation and Scott’s absent humming.

 

Later, when the detritus of the meal was cleared away and John had wrangled an reluctant Sherlock into helping him with the washing up, Marlie and Scott stood, preparing to leave. “Time for our outing,” Marlie proclaimed.

 

“Really mother? ‘Outing?’” her son groaned.

 

“Yes. We’re going to go to the markets,” she replied.

 

Sherlock wished, not for the first time, that life had a rewind button. He would rewind back to last night and take John off to a nearby town to stay in for the next day. That way he could have missed his parents (and this torture) entirely. “Do we have to?” he asked plaintively.

 

Marlie had a glint in her eyes that spelled trouble. “It’s this, or tonight at the old Runcorn building. You know what that is, Sherlock. But I will not be deprived of your company.”

 

Two options, both as equally as undesirable as the other. Sherlock calculated which one would ultimately be more annoying and tax his patience more. He stole a quick look at John, who was staring back, brow raised in question.

 

With a dramatic put upon sigh, Sherlock replied, “I’d rather tonight at the Runcorn pub. And yes-“ he held up his hand to halt his mother’s coming tirade. “I’ll get John to make sure that I’m there. I’d rather not have your idea of revenge directed at me while I’m here.”

 

“My idea of revenge? You make me sound horrible!” Marlie replied, appearing affronted.

 

Scott chuckled and winked at John, “Last time Sherlock tried to avoid our company more than once she slipped his white shirts in with a pair of red trousers. Turned them all pink!”

 

The death glares Scott received were identical.

 

“Sorry to break in here but…what’s tonight?” John asked.

 

Judging by Sherlock’s parent’s smiles, and Sherlock’s grimace, it was something interesting.


	11. Panic at the Disco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dance goes awry when Sherlock has a small panic attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look at that! Another chapter. Again, so sorry for the slow updating. But expect at least once a month now. I've got my fire raring again! 
> 
> (And I've got other fics I want to write....)
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked

“I must invent a special kind of brain bleach for this.”  
  


“Sherlock, grow up.”  
  


“It’s not the fact my parents are dancing. That was fairly commonplace during my childhood. It’s the _song_ ,” Sherlock emphasised with a scornful gesture out towards the balding middle aged DJ who held court at the north end of the dance hall within the Runcorn. “It’s one of their favourites. They’ve played it so many times during my childhood the lyrics are undeletable!” He ran a long-fingered hand through his curls in agitation.  
  


“Really? Did it have any particular significance?” John asked, sipping slowly at a Guinness.  
  


“No. Yes. I don’t know, is it significant that they danced in the rain for the first time to this song?” Sherlock wondered.  
  


John laughed just as the chorus kicked in.

 

_If you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain_

_If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain_

_If you like making love at midnight in the dunes of the cape_

_Then I'm the love that you've looked for, write to me and escape_

 

From where John stood, he was mesmerised by Sherlock’s parents, watching them slowly rock to and fro with the beat. They didn’t take their eyes off each other, with small, but joyous smiles on their faces. They held each other close, and occasionally Scott would cross his eyes just to see Marlie giggle. It was obvious just by glancing at them that they were in love.  
  


They were the happiest people in the room.    
  


John looked up to Sherlock, standing rigidly beside him, the fingers of his right hand twitching. The expression on his noble features was pure envy.  
  


With a start he realised that he hadn’t seen Sherlock dance at his wedding. Apart from that pirouette in showing off for Janine, he hadn’t seen anything. Which was odd, because the man loved to dance. He had been particularly enthusiastic about showing John how to do the wedding dance with Mary after all.  
  


“You can’t fool me Sherlock,” John said with a grin.  
  


“What?”  
  


“You like the song too.”  
  


Sherlock snorted. “Patently ridiculous. Why would I like it? It’s a clichéd, monotonous piece of pop music,” he said.  
  


John replied, “Because it reminds you of your parents. And you love them. Because you came here without more than ten minutes of sulking and you’re not actively trying to stop the DJ playing old 80’s songs other than a couple of glares.”  
  


Sherlock promptly pretended he hadn’t heard John and stalked towards the drinks table, the shorter man trailing with an amused look.  
  


“Why don’t you ever admit to what you want?” John asked.  
  


In the middle of pouring a glass of water, Sherlock froze for a moment, his expression hardening into frustration. “I don’t want anything. And even if I did perchance want anything sometime soon it would not be relevant.”  
  


John huffed. It was all too easy to see Sherlock’s words and body language contradicting each other. “Right, try again. I’m not convinced,” he muttered.  
  


Sherlock ignored him again, his gaze falling back on his parents somewhat bitterly. He tracked their path around the dancefloor, bracing himself for when they came closer. Without a doubt, they would try and encourage he and John to join them. John would decline, leaving Sherlock longing for something that wasn’t going to happen soon, regardless to how close he and John had gotten to breaking the tension between them the other night. It was a moment Sherlock was unsure even happened, if it had been something he had just wanted enough he had thought it into existence. The high of the case, the contentment of coming home _with_ John, made him wonder if he had made too much of their level of comfort with each other.  
  


The most frustrating thing, to Sherlock, was that this whole idea of 'healing' out in the country was uncharted territory. Like he had said to John that night - he was trying to get this right. The timing of when to push and when to just let things be, when to cleave his soul open to let John have a good look and a poke around and when to ask the other man to do the same, was a tricky thing to pinpoint.  
  


He was cautious of the fact that when it came to reading a social situation, he could always interpret it wrong. John was no different. It was part of John’s charm, really. That he was never quite predictable.  
  


“Oh my dears, come join us!” Marlie beckoned as Scott swept her around close to where her son was staring into the distance. The music changed, slowing and giving more couples the chance to get up on the dance floor and sway.  
  


John smiled at them, taking in the scene - people of all ages and genders were dancing together - and then turning to Sherlock and grasping his hand.  
  


Sherlock jolted, barely having the chance to make a token protest before John winked at him and steered him out onto the floor after his parents. They both completely missed the knowing looks that Sherlock’s parents were giving them.  
  


“John, what are you doing?!” Sherlock exclaimed.  
  


“Dancing with you, idiot, what do you think I’m doing?” John replied easily, guiding his friend easily - so stunned was the detective he just let John move as he wished, following the steps that they had practiced so many times together in Baker Street before John’s wedding. “I thought you liked dancing. You looked longing enough-”  
  


“But...people will talk,” the taller man said, scanning the crowd around them, waiting for the judging glares or salacious winks from the general public. So far, there was none. “You...we…” he stammered.  
  


With a wry chuckle, John pointed out, “Sherlock, I’m on holiday and I haven’t felt this good for ages. I frankly don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.” And hadn’t that felt really good to say? He didn’t care. It had been a long time since he hadn’t cared about what other people thought. He should start doing it more often. Social perceptions about him and Sherlock had bothered him for a long time. He never should have let it, because this, dancing together, felt so _good_. His heart pounded harder seeing Sherlock move so gracefully, his face, so familiar and so confused by John’s proclamation, focusing on him and him alone. ‘ _Screw the world,’_ thought John, ‘ _he’s the best thing that ever happened to me.’_  
  


“Besides,” he continued, smiling at Sherlock’s befuddled features, “we never did get to dance at my wedding. You scarpered.”  
  


“No...no we didn’t,” the other man replied softly, his surprise fading into a resigned, but calm look.  
  


“I wanted to. By God, I wanted to. Perhaps too much,” John admitted, braving twirling Sherlock in time to the beat of a new song. When he drew Sherlock back in, he pulled him closer. “You look freer when you dance.”  
  


“I do love it,” Sherlock said, the tension easing from him.  
  


“You haven’t looked this relaxed in a while.”  
  


Sherlock hummed, thinking about the soap opera his life had become. Coming back from the ‘dead,’ the wedding, the filth and depravity of Magnussen - a man who he had killed. The latest in a line of many.  
  


Instantly, his anxiety sprung to the fore when a sick sense of irony hit him. Both recent times John had danced in a public setting, he had been dancing with murderers. It would be funny if it hadn’t made him feel so ill.  
  


“Sherlock?”  
  


Sherlock realised that he had stopped stock still, John’s content expression now concerned. People kept dancing around them. They were all unknowing of the anxiety attack creeping up on the detective.  
  


“I need air,” Sherlock whispered.  
  


“You’re trembling,” John pointed out, his hands sliding up to Sherlock’s shoulders and squeezing. “What’s going on? Something I said?  
 

“No, it’s not you...no...I…”  
  


Sherlock’s eyes widened and he scrambled backwards, searching for an exit. He bolted for the door, John following close behind.  
  


God, who was he trying to kid? Playing at therapy, trying to be normal, having a _holiday_ for heaven’s sake, trying to help and heal. He had blood on his hands. It wouldn’t have bothered him so much, but his mind had struck on one thought and one alone.  
  


He was no better than Mary.  
  


Cool air on his face made him stop running, pulling in deep breaths of air.  
  


“Sherlock!” John cried as he reached him. “What is going on?”  
  


“I’m an utter fool, John,” he replied, moving further away.  
  


“Hey, hey, hey.” John moved quickly to catch Sherlock’s shoulders and turn him around so they could see eye to eye. “Talk. Don’t shut me out. Just don’t. Remember, we promised each other this. We were having fun just then, what _happened?”_  
  


“You’re best friends with a murderer, John. Do you ever think that? Just idly. Knowing what I’ve done?"  
  


“Now? You choose to be irrational about this kind of thing _now?”_ John wondered incredulously. He shook his head in disbelief. “Are you even hearing how ridiculous you sound?”  
  


“I-”  
  


“Shut up. And fucking breathe. Just breathe. And then we can talk about those anxious thoughts of yours and I’ll tell you to forget them,” John ordered kindly. Sherlock’s face, pale with anxiety, looked to him in guidance. “Come on. In and out, nice and slow, and hold for three seconds at the top of each breath.”  
  


Sherlock obeyed. His frenzied thoughts began to clear and he felt a trickle of shame for how immaturely he had acted.  
  


“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” John whispered, seeing Sherlock’s expressive eyes flicker to and fro as he thought. He moved forward, wrapping his friend in a fierce embrace. “It’s fine. I mean it.”  
  


They stood in the parking lot of the Runcorn, joined together in a hug, for several minutes when Sherlock murmured, “I had this thought. That the last two times you danced with anyone they were murderers.”  
  


John hummed and said, “Not true.”  
  


“You know what I’ve done,” Sherlock protested, moving back out of the embrace, but unwilling to let go of John’s forearms.  
  


“Yes. But you’re not a murderer. You’re a detective who moonlights as a spy for his brother every now and then. You took lives, but not once was it for pleasure or for money. You did it to _protect_ people. We’ve talked about this Sherlock,” John said encouragingly. “I’ve killed people too. It’s not a pleasant thing but it was what needed to be done.” His hands moved to cradle the taller man’s face, ensuring he couldn’t turn away. “I still have PTSD. You still have PTSD. It’s okay to freak out at some of the little things. But you have to rationalise it. You are _not_ like Mary. You never could be. You did what needed to be done.”  
  


“You said that,” mumbled Sherlock, feeling chastened.  
  


“Yes. And I’ll keep saying it. You protected me for all this time. I know you, and you wouldn’t have done anything if it wasn’t necessary,” John replied. He gave Sherlock a small smile. “It’s fine. I mean it. I think I'm now at the stage I can accept you, _really accept you_ , leaving for those two years.”  
  


Sherlock nodded glumly, and then shuffled forward to rest his head on his friend’s shoulder. John welcomed him once more, holding him tightly. “I’m never going to let you go,” he whispered, stroking a hand through the inky curls. “We’ll be alright.”  
  


John didn’t pull away, even when he noticed Scott poking his head out from the hall. “Is he alright?” he mouthed.  
  


John shot him a surreptitious thumbs up. Sherlock’s father nodded and disappeared back into the Runcorn.  
  


“You want to go home?” John asked quietly, loathe to disturb Sherlock’s warm weight against him.  
  


“Yes. Please. But I’ll have to arrange something else with my parents. We didn’t spend enough time with them, really,” the detective replied.  
  


“Your mum will be glad to hear that. Maybe offer to go to their place for a couple of days,” the shorter man suggested.  
  


The disentangled from each other, but kept close to each other as they braved the cheery sounds of a get together once more. Their parting from Sherlock’s parents was swift. They were disappointed, but understood when Sherlock whispered what had happened to them. They made plans for a week’s time, and the doctor and detective left for the soothing surrounds of _Apibus_.

* * *

 

As soon as they arrived back at the cottage, Sherlock went into the study, pulling out a thesis on butterfly migrations. Not his preferred material, but it would relieve the ragged marks on his psyche left by his panic attack. It would distract him from feeling too pitiful. He wandered out in time to see John come through the kitchen doorway with a pile of blankets in his arms.   
  


“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked in confusion.  
  


“You know how, when we were in Baker Street before everything and there were just some nights that you couldn’t settle and I was restless, we would both happen to lounge on the couch and watch shitty movies until we fell asleep?” John said. He dumped the blankets in a heap next to the couch, nabbed the cushions off it and arranged them to his liking. “Sometimes it didn’t work, but I always liked to think that it calmed you somewhat.”  
  


“I remember. And it did. Calm me, that is. Did you want to try it again?”  
  


“Yes. Let’s just…share some space for a bit, put on Die Hard and see what happens.”  
  


Sherlock moved around the couch and to John’s side. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I don’t think I was going to sleep tonight. So much whirling in my mind, brought up again…I appreciate it.”  
  


“This is what it’s about, isn’t it?” John replied. He patted Sherlock’s shoulder and continued, “Go and have a shower, I’ll make some tea. I think a nice quiet night is just what this doctor ordered.”  
  


Sherlock nodded and left. He still felt the tinge of shame for his reaction at the old Runcorn, but it was tempered by the warmth of gratitude. John had known instinctively what he needed. That instinct that had been missing for so long – ever since his return. He paused on the staircase for a moment, shut his eyes and had to tamp down the fierce wave of love that coursed through him as he thought about John.  
  


In the living area, John was felt his own twinges of emotion keenly. His heart had broken when he realised why Sherlock had reacted the way he did, and he wished with all his might that he could just get into Sherlock’s head and sweep away the lingering doubt and regret. While he could understand why the other man had acted, he knew from his own experience it took time to make peace with violence. Even if it was for protecting someone else. He walked into the kitchen, ruminating about how much he just wanted to _hold_ Sherlock and not let go, to soothe every tremor, banish away any bad memory.  
  


He made the tea automatically, knowing to make Sherlock’s milkier than usual. Whenever Sherlock was in a mood, the extra milk pleased him.  
  


When Sherlock finally made his way back into the living room, curls damp and smelling like peppermint and orange, it was to a mug of French Earl Grey tea waiting invitingly on the coffee table, and (even more inviting still) John wrapped in a blanket, remote in hand. He lifted up the blanket, beckoning towards his friend.  
  


“Come here, you,” John said quietly.  
  


Sherlock shivered at the low, mellow resonance of his voice and made his way into the cocoon of blankets beside him. “You’re right. I needed this,” he admitted.  
  


“Oh would you look at that? I did something right,” the other said teasingly.  
  


Sherlock’s tone was anything but teasing when he replied, “You’ve done so much more than that.”  
  


A beat of silence passed. John grunted and turned his head to the screen. “Right. Now…let’s see how many continuity errors you can spot this time,” he said.  
  


Sherlock hummed in reply, snuggling slightly closer to John and taking a sip of tea. “Thanks,” he whispered.  
  


John nudged his shoulder. “Anytime.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe these boneheads might have a moment...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for being so patient while I slowly crank these chapters out. Real life has been very difficult. I am so grateful for those that stick around, leave me a comment or give me kudos. YOU ARE ALL WONDERFUL PEOPLE.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

Life, as it were in Sussex, continued.

 

John begrudgingly went and saw a counsellor in nearby Eastbourne in order to speed up his progress. He found the man he was booked in with somewhat dull, but easy to talk to and discuss coping strategies. Certainly developing healthier ones than his past ways of dealing with difficult events in his life (mainly alcohol). He had been doing fine on his own, but seeing Sherlock open up to him encouraged him to make further steps of progress for both their sakes.

 

Sharing a blanket side by side on the couch became a more regular occurrence when they equally decided that now was the perfect time to catch up on films and crap telly.

 

They were careful to spend time apart as well. They knew that the balance between them could tip if they suffocated each other with either not enough, or too much contact.

 

Sherlock would spend time experimenting or exploring rock pools down by the coast and documenting his findings, or tending to his bees. He was not completely idle on the detective front – he had brought a stack of cold cases from London for the occasions in which his racing mind would not accept anything less. Detective Inspector Smorton had begun to email him with a few cases, should he be interested. While the cases were mundane, Sherlock relished the opportunity to show off how much swifter being in a relaxed state caused him to solve them. Out of the cold cases that had stumped Sherlock in the past, three had been solved after mere hours in his reorganised mind palace.

 

John sometimes assisted Sherlock with the cold cases, if only to flex his own detecting skills so he wouldn’t be too rusty when they returned to London.

 

Due to the sessions with the counsellor and talking out coping strategies, John spent time out on top of the cliff overlooking the cove where he and Sherlock swam. He would often write and think for a while, before making his way down to the sandy beach and going for a swim. The water, while cold and unwelcoming most of the time, helped to clear his mind after such a session. At the cottage, he was slowly making his way through a great part of Sherlock’s library, and had begun to cook more as he eased into a more peaceful rhythm of life. Every few days, when he became antsy, John would take the Jeep and explore the surrounding towns. Sometimes Sherlock would join him.

 

When John needed another outlook on life other than Sherlock’s, he would visit Greta (and be fed several pieces of her famous chocolate tart), or even make the commute to Sherlock’s parents house (Sherlock would pretend not to notice that John had gone there).

 

A week after Sherlock’s panic attack, they ended up spending a weekend with Scott and Marlie, much to their joy. Marlie had not had the opportunity to bring out Sherlock’s photo albums from his childhood at last Christmas – therefore she wasted no time in hauling them out and handing them to John within a hour of the pair arriving at their house. Much to Sherlock’s mortification, Marlie was insistent on showing each and every one of his photographs along with her commentary. John had been so delighted at seeing Sherlock’s past being revealed that the detective decided not to immediately shut his mother down.

 

She was happy to spoil John, so he let her.

 

In fact, that weekend, John had received more attention than Sherlock had. Scott took him and Sherlock fishing (which they both failed abysmally at, while Scott proved he was the master and snagged three fish), and Marlie invited him to bake pies and cookies with her while Scott took his son out into the shed to work on his terrariums and ant colony. Sherlock’s parents treated John with stories of their lives, before and after they had met, and always had a cup of tea and listening ear for him when he wished. John began to feel truly comfortable with them, and liked the fact they didn’t sugar-coat things. They were blunt about the troubles their family had faced, but didn’t dwell on them.

 

When he and Sherlock had driven back to _Apibus_ , John had been silent and stoic in the car. When they stepped foot into the cottage, John had turned to Sherlock, eyes shining with unshed tears and restrained emotion.

 

“I…um…just wanted to say I’m glad we went to your parents house Sherlock.” He cleared his throat and said quietly, “I know you think they can be a little overbearing, but I can tell how much they love you. They’re great. Er…and they were just so kind to me and…and all.”

 

“John?” Sherlock asked, prompting his friend when he trailed off.

 

The doctor sniffed with a minute shake of his head. “I just wish I had parents like that. Ones who accepted me no matter how much I fucked up,” he admitted.

 

Sherlock grimaced at John’s melancholy and reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “You do,” he said.

 

“My parents are dead,” John pointed out.

 

A smile quirked Sherlock’s lips up as he replied, “I think my parents count you as part of the family now, you know. They’ve accepted you. You won’t be able to shake them so easily.”

 

John felt lightheaded and he sagged into Sherlock’s open arms. A shuddering sob wracked his body and his voice was thick with the weight of the tears he refused to shed. His heart felt so suddenly full it could burst. “That means so much to me…you have no idea. I’m going to tell you all of it one day, I swear.”

 

“It’s fine,” the detective assured. “I’m glad, John.”

 

John huffed a laugh and looked into those lovely pale eyes. “Me too.”

 

\-----

 

It was one of the days, almost two weeks after, that they were having a ‘separate’ day. John was in the study, writing an email to the estate agent who was finalising the sale of his house, and Sherlock was up in his lab-cum-art room. He had planned to experiment with blood (samples from both he and John), and had all of his equipment set up, a notebook ready by his side.

 

However the detective was sidetracked, lost in thought, twirling his pencil idly as he stared out the window.

 

He had been itching to perform some sort of scientific procedure, but once every piece of glassware had been carefully laid out, his pressing need had dwindled into a mere inclination. The ocean breeze and the humming of the hives from behind the hedge walls were becoming a far more tempting option.

 

Sherlock sighed, aggravated at himself. He had gotten everything prepared and for what? Now he didn’t even want to.

 

He slumped down onto the desk, staring at the conical flasks of the blood he had collected. How he had changed, to be so unenthused about the thrill of scientific discovery. He knew that there was such a thing as ‘too much of a good thing’ (his drug use was a fine example) but he had never thought it would have applied to experiments. Science was part of Sherlock, surely as a cutting remark and a tailored suit.

 

‘ _It’s because I can do all this at home in Baker Street_ ,’ the detective thought listlessly. Experiments were not a pressing need out in the countryside. There was no thrilling murder, no intricate streets to sprint down, no Mrs. Hudson to scandalise and then soothe her ruffled feathers. No Lestrade pestering him, no snide remarks from Donovan, or the pleasing pastime of destroying Mycroft’s trackers and bugs. He missed it – life in Baker Street had its own cadence Sherlock attuned to – London was his hunting ground, his city of wonder and darkness.

 

But he would be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed his time in Sussex. He couldn’t remember a time where he was allowed to just _be_. There were other, different things to preoccupy himself with. He wasn’t bored enough yet to turn back into the familiar embrace of science and the fascinating morbidity. Not when he was surrounded by sheer life. His bees, the gardens, the ocean…

 

Sherlock frowned. God, his inner voice was turning into a bloody minstrel!

 

Levering himself upright, Sherlock vowed to perform the experiment anyway. It wouldn’t do to waste the time he had spent organising all of his equipment precisely. And the disgruntled expression on John’s face would be worth it when he showed off the blood vial later – John didn’t mind Sherlock using his blood for the experiments just as long as he didn’t know what was done with it. Whenever the detective decided to conveniently ‘forget’ this fact John would make the exact expression each time. Exasperation, combined with disgust and a faint disgusted curiosity about what kinds of things Sherlock could do with blood.

 

Slightly more enthused by that prospect, Sherlock reached for his safety goggles.

 

“FUCK!”

 

John’s bellow echoed through the cottage, startling Sherlock. He whipped around, unwittingly causing his hand to bump into some glassware, causing it to topple off the table and smash into pieces on the floor.

 

“Shit,” Sherlock cursed, dropping off his stool and beginning to gather the glass pieces. He looked up at the door, thinking he had heard John’s footsteps, as he reached for a large piece. In his moment of distraction, he lost his balance and fell forward just enough so that the glass cut over the skin of his fingers.

 

With another curse, the detective reeled back, wincing at the gashes. How careless of him, he mused, as he stared at the crimson liquid seeping through the cuts.

 

“JOHN!” Sherlock yelled. He hurriedly rose and used his feet to shove the broken glass in a pile to the side of the worktable.

 

John came up moments later, scowling and asking gruffly, “What is it? I just dropped a fucking encyclopaedia on my foot.”

 

Sherlock made a knowing noise. “So that’s why you yelled so loud.” He held up his bloody hand, and said, “I cut myself when I was startled by your rather ferocious bellow. A flask broke.”

 

John’s expression instantly changed, going from irritable to remorseful in an instant. “Shit, stay there, I’ll go grab the first aid kit,” he directed, turning and sprinting down to the kitchen, yanking open cupboard doors until he found the large green bag filled with supplies. He dashed back up to the room to find Sherlock staring at the doorway in mild surprise.

 

“Sorry,” the doctor murmured, moving to the other man, carefully manoeuvring him onto the stool and placing the kit on the nearby table.

 

“What for?”

 

“I didn’t mean to yell so loud and startle you.”

 

“Well of course you didn’t mean to,” Sherlock stated, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not your fault I was careless.”  

 

John harrumphed. “I feel like a twat now though,” he mumbled. He gently took Sherlock’s hand and examined it, analysing how serious the cuts were. “Hold still. They’re not overly deep and I’ll patch them up in a jiffy.”

 

“My hero,” Sherlock sighed sarcastically. John gave him a dark look in return.

 

“Shush you. These may be minor but I’m going to take care of them anyway.”

 

John busied himself with the kit, finding some antiseptic wipes which he carefully passed over each mark, and then sprayed antibiotic ointment lightly over  Sherlock’s hands. “I’m going to put plasters on these,” he informed his friend, before grabbing a few and sticking them on. He was bent over Sherlock’s hand, unknowing how close he had leaned in until he looked up from sticking the last plaster and found his nose barely a centimetre away from the tip of Sherlock’s.

 

Sherlock couldn’t breathe.

 

John was so close.

 

They had been close before, but this was unexpected, he was unprepared to see the map of John’s emotions and life in his face, the ocean of his eyes so near to his own.

 

The air seemed to thicken around them as they didn’t move away, staring at each other, caught in the spell of proximity.

 

John blinked, tilting his head to the side slightly, feeling something hot emanate from around his chest area, and unable to look away from Sherlock’s eyes. They were wide with expression, but John couldn’t quite pinpoint just what it was that was so powerful about it.

 

Sherlock could feel himself beginning to move forward and caught himself in time before he took that irrevocable last step. He cleared his throat and tilted back. “Thanks for that,” he whispered.

 

“Hmm? Oh. Yes, your fingers,” John stammered. “They’ll be right as rain in a couple of days. You’ve had worse scrapes than this, eh?”

 

“Yes, well, being close to death makes a cut look like a blessing.”

 

As soon as the words left his lips, Sherlock winced. That had to have been one of the most unhelpful things he could have possibly said in that moment.

 

John picked up on it, murmuring, “Timing, Sherlock.”

 

The detective hummed in agreement, taking the chance to back away. “Well I think now’s the perfect time to go outside. Check on the hives and such…call me in later if I’ve been out for more than a couple of hours,” he said awkwardly. Before John could make any kind of move, Sherlock was gone, racing out the door and thundering down the spiral staircase.

 

“Good job, Watson,” John said depreciatingly to himself.  He sighed and slumped into a nearby stool, unknowingly mimicking Sherlock’s pose from earlier. He scrubbed his hands over his face, and left them there, obscuring his vision.

 

That moment between them had only strengthened what John was slowly realising with each and every counselling session.

 

He wanted. He wanted Sherlock.

 

He had locked away all of his feelings so tightly, pretending they didn’t exist until he believed his own lie. He had promptly discarded any thoughts of having a deeper relationship than friendship with Sherlock then they arose, he had entrenched his thinking to be only of women when he felt sexual urges. Being with Mary had made it easier to believe treacherous thoughts about his best friend didn’t exist. Sherlock’s return and subsequent near-death episode had begun the process to realising them again. Every moment they spent together, John would wonder if there would be some precious increment of time, some sign, that he could act, could bring up what he had been resisting for too long.

 

His love for his best friend.

 

And now he might have just let that one chance go by.

 

It might have shocked Sherlock, to have John abruptly descend on him with a kiss. John would have gladly taken the surprise and the shock. He didn’t think he would be rejected.

 

Well…he hoped, at least.

 

‘ _I’m a fucking coward,’_ John thought. He didn’t want to wonder and speculate anymore. He was done with secrets, with being scared of how he would be perceived. He was so over having to hide his own personality, to keep up with the ‘everything is fine’ facade when he was a dormant volcano waiting to erupt.

 

Frustrated with himself, John made his way out of the house, heedless of the gathering storm clouds on the horizon. He purposefully strode towards the cove, wanting nothing more than to rewind time, back to the very beginning of when they had met, and own up to that spark of interest he had felt even then.

 

 


End file.
